


Finding Equilibrium

by shadeshifter



Category: Highlander: The Series, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeshifter/pseuds/shadeshifter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergeant Lyman is actually the 5000-year-old Immortal Methos under the control of Stryker's serum. Rewrite of my earlier fic, 'One Art'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm posting all my other WIPs, I decided to add this one too.
> 
> I don’t know what happened. I watched XMFC and got inspired to revamp ‘One Art’, and then young Charles wanted to be in it, and then he was flirting, and I think this might end up being Methos/Charles... IDEK.  
> Also, everything I know about genetics I learned from Wikipedia.

About fifty years ago

Charles didn’t notice it at first. He blamed the presence, like a static whine at the back of his mind, on the mass of students, on his anxiety at presenting his first lecture series, but it didn’t decrease, not even when he found his stride and many of the students, as is the nature of students attending early morning lectures, stopped attending. Eventually, he pinpointed it to a man who always sat in the back row. The man listened intently, and seemed to follow easily, but he never asked questions and he never stuck around long enough for Charles to track him down.

Even when Charles brushed cautiously against his mind, the static remained. It prickled like pins and needles against his consciousness until he lost his train of thought. The man didn’t seem to notice the intrusion and Charles decided that his mental defences must be instinctive and resilient. Charles contemplated, only theoretically of course, what it would take to bring them down. 

It’s only on the last day of his lecture series that the man approaches him. Charles can’t tell how old he is; he might be a few years older than Charles, but there’s also a sense of timelessness to his appearance. 

“Doctor Xavier,” he greets, and his voice is smooth and accented in a way Charles can’t quite place. 

“I’m John White.” A non-descript name and Charles sensed truth, but with a curious mixture of something else, too. Not quite deception, but something close. He’s a mystery and Charles loves mysteries.

“Just Charles, please.”

“Charles, then,” John conceded with a brief smile. “I’m curious as to whether you believe the mutations you speak of have already manifested.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Charles hedged. John seemed keenly interested, more so than just a passing curiosity, and Charles wished he could read his mind to see if he had a mutation of his own. “Mutations are occurring all the time. Even your hazel eyes are a mutation of the OCA2 gene. And it’s a very groovy mutation.”

“Is that so?” John asked as he leaned forward with a faint smirk. Charles smiled as he looked up at him.

“You also have a very groovy HMGA2 gene.”

...

The next time Charles senses that intriguing mind, it’s over 40 years later. Charles has been kidnapped and John is standing at Stryker’s shoulder, gaze blank.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles was tired and hurting, in more ways than he cared to think about. There was worry, adrenaline and fear, so very much fear, from Storm on his right, and concern, but also intense curiosity and wonder, from the man on his left. Kurt, if he remembered. The mutant that had been forced into attempting to assassinate the president. It overwhelmed his own feelings and, for once, he didn’t care. 

It took a second for him to recognise the remnants of Stryker’s soldiers, destroyed by some kind of explosion, but one was different. The wounds were knitting together on one of the corpses and Charles’s grip on Ororo tightened, forcing her to a halt.

“We need to bring him,” he said, as the face began to reform. The shape of those cheekbones and that prominent nose was distinctive.

“Professor,” Storm started, but Charles shook his head. He didn’t know the circumstances, but he needed time to find out, and they weren’t going to get it here. Scott frowned but passed Jean off to one of the older children. He bent down to and hauled the man into a fireman’s carry. Charles nodded at him gratefully and they moved forward through the tunnels once again. 

-

Once back at the mansion, Charles left it to Ororo to handle the children while he and Logan handled their patient. Logan grabbed the man and slung him roughly over his shoulder. Charles winced a little, but let it go. ‘John’, as he’d called himself when he’d introduced himself to Charles all those years ago, clearly had a healing factor and reprimanding Logan at this stage would do no good. 

The ride to the infirmary, situated in the basement with Cerebro, was made in silence and Charles deliberately ignored the slow drips of blood that littered the floor beneath John’s body. The wounds weren’t gaping anymore, more proof that he’d done the right thing in rescuing the man – reviving when trapped in a flooded, underground base was not something he’d wish on anyone – but the injuries were still knitting together and looked like they would be for quite some time.

Logan dropped John onto one of the beds and left his limbs in the tangled the landed in until Charles frowned him into capitulation and Logan re-arranged them into something approximating comfort. Charles decided that that was the best he was going to get.

“I’ll contact Hank and see if he’s available,” Charles said. It pained him to even think of replacing Jean, especially so soon, but they couldn’t do without a doctor for very long. Not with so many unpredictable abilities combined with emotional teenagers. Logan nodded even as a growl rumbled low in his throat. Charles doubted the man was even fully aware of it.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Logan said with a jerk of his head in John’s direction. 

“I’ll be back as soon as everything is settled.”

-

Methos opened his eyes, immediately awake and taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. Almost immediately, he catalogued the details – medical instruments, sanitised white and stainless steel decor, a screen for x-rays, lack of windows – and decided on underground medical facility. He still felt the phantom ache of extensive healing, but he did not think the instruments had been used on him. The last thing he remembered was standing outside the Cerebro built beneath Alkali Lake. 

His hands shot to his neck and he probed the back of his neck. He could still feel the device there, hard metal beneath soft flesh, providing Stryker’s serum direct access to his system. 

“Nice trick,” a rough voice drawled. Methos spun, lunging for one of the scalpels on the tray, before turning to face the man. Wolverine, Methos recalled, Stryker had alternately waxed poetical and ranted about him. Blades slid from between Wolverine’s knuckles and he smirked. 

“Kidnapping is illegal, you know,” Methos told him.

“You’d know.”

Methos was in a strange place, though he now assumed it to be Xavier’s school, surrounded by strangers, even if he did know their bios. He was vulnerable, had been vulnerable and helpless and weak for far too long, so he drew his most comfortable personas around him, like a blanket. Or a tourniquet. He shrugged Adam Pierson’s shrug.

“I like to be good at what I do,” he said with Dr Adams’ practiced nonchalance. After all, he’d had thousands of years to perfect such things. After that length of time, you would be exceptionally good at anything you’d put your mind to. 

With Death’s ruthless efficiency, he raised the scalpel to his own neck, just over the device, and sliced deeply. Warm blood gushed over his fingers as they pried the device from where it was implanted. He stared at the small piece of metal for a long moment before he dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.

“Hey bub, you okay?” Wolverine asked, stepping forward. Methos noticed distantly that his claws were now retracted and the man even seemed to look concerned. Or at least, not overtly hostile anymore.

“Much better,” he said, though even his own voice sounded distant to him. Perhaps he should have waited until he’d properly recovered before removing the device but, even as the world darkened at the edges of his vision, he couldn’t really bring himself to feel sorry.

“Hey,” Wolverine called as Methos felt his knees go weak. He crashed to the floor, unconscious.

-

“Welcome back,” Charles said, watching the man he’d known as John blink his eyes open for the second time that day. At least this time he was only regaining consciousness, not reviving from the dead. The other man groaned and levered himself up into a sitting position.

“I could do without the death metal group rocking out in my skull,” he muttered, rubbing at his temples.

“Hank should be able to give you something for that.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, then reached up to touch the bandages at his neck. Hank had put them in place when he’d realised that the neck wound didn’t seem to be healing as quickly as the rest of him had.

“So, John... do you still go by that name?”

“Adam will do.”

“Of course,” Charles agreed. He wondered how many identities this man had, how many times he’d had to change them. “There are matters we must discuss, Adam, and I’m afraid they can’t wait.”

Adam nodded, indicating that Charles should get on with it.

“We are aware that the mind control serum was used on you,” Charles told him. Adam nodded tersely, clearly not at all keen to continue that line of thought. Adam’s hand lifted to rub at the back of his neck before dropping listlessly to his lap when he realised what he was doing. “You are not the only one here who has undergone the experience. Indeed, even I fell prey to it. I do not think there will be many who blame you for what occurred.”

Adam nodded but otherwise kept his own council. He was sure, though he could not read Adam’s mind, that the man did not believe him. He hoped they had the chance to show him otherwise. Adam was as much a victim in this as any of them.

“What did you know of the project?”

“Only that Stryker intended to use the device beneath this school, Cerebro, to kill all mutants,” Adam replied, “and he intended to use you to do so.” 

Adam’s passive expression became distant and, not for the first time, Charles wished he could read his mind, but it was still the impenetrable static it had always been. Charles didn’t know how much of what Adam revealed was the truth or not, couldn’t use his usual methods to discover the truth, but he knew from Logan’s description and the camera footage that at least Adam’s initial reaction, the horror of it, had been real. If only because there had been no time to plan for it.

“Were there others that you knew of involved in the project?”

Adam shook his head then shrugged.

“There are always others,” Adam said. “Lunatics and fanatics tend to accumulate like-minded comrades.”

Charles withheld a sigh. The man before him was frustratingly reticent and Charles was unable to flesh out his verbal answers with the mental associations people were prone to make.

“Is there anything you can tell me about Alkali Lake?” Charles persisted.

“I wasn’t very high in the pecking order,” Adam said, a little more bitterly, before even that emotion was wiped from his expression. Adam was clearly a man used to being in control of himself. That control had been violated and he was now struggling to reassert whatever control he could.

“Of course,” Charles said, letting his compassion win out. “I should let you get some rest, though Hank might want to have a look at you first.”

-

Methos watched as Xavier wheeled from the room. He remembered the naive professor who’d begun his career arguing for the existence of mutations the rest of the world wasn’t ready to believe. This man now was so very different. Older, wearier... warier.

They were all older. For all that 50 years was barely any time at all to him, Methos had felt the weight of his years keenly of recent. The thought of that place, with the degradations he’d had to endure, was just another weight he had to bear. 

“Good evening, Sergeant Lyman,” a large, blue, furry man in a white lab coat said as he entered the room. 

“Adam is fine,” Methos said immediately. He didn’t think he’d ever hear that name again without a thrill of anxiety shivering down his spine. Piercing eyes appraised him for a moment before the doctor smiled, mouth full of sharp teeth.

“I’m Dr Henry McCoy,” he said, reaching out with his clawed hand, “Hank.”

Methos shook his hand, even as he wondered if there was some trick in this. He’d kidnapped their children and participated in events that had led directly to injury to their own team, yet they seemed to be trying to make him feel comfortable. Perhaps they were trying to coax information out of him and it would only be a matter of time before they resorted to harsher methods.

“I’d like to take a look at your wound,” Hank told him, “see how it’s healing.”

Methos flinched violently when Hank reached for his neck and struck out at him instinctively. As embarrassed as Methos was at this lack of control, emotional or physical, he couldn’t help but feel relieved when Hank stepped back, giving him space. Not that Methos had actually hurt him; the doctor was solid muscle from what he could tell.

“It’s fine,” Methos said, removing the bandage himself. He ran fingers over the faint scar. The blade had been sharp and the cut clean, if a little deeper than necessary, so it had healed well even if it would never entirely fade. He refused to meet Hank’s too sympathetic eyes.

“The professor mentioned that you were experiencing a severe headache. Is this normal?”

Considering everything that had happened, and Methos shied away from thinking too deeply about what that encompassed, he was probably doing better than expected. Certainly better than he’d anticipated less than a week ago.

“Normal enough,” he hedged. “I’d really just like to get out of here.”

Hank frowned and Methos wondered if he was just as captive here as he had been at Alkali Lake. 

“I really wouldn’t advise that. I’d prefer to monitor you for at least another day or two, to make sure there are no further side-effects from your experience.”

Methos tensed, anxious at the thought of spending an indeterminate amount of time trapped in this stark, underground room. It wasn’t until Hank rested a hand lightly on his arm that Methos realised his breathing had become quick and shallow.

“Ororo should be setting up a room upstairs for you. The fresh air and sunlight will do you some good,” Hank assured him.

Methos pulled himself together and nodded. He could catalogue the effects of trauma, of having his control and freewill systematically stripped away, but awareness didn’t change his reactions, didn’t make it any easier to put behind him. There were times when his Immortality, and the crystal clear photographic memory it gave him, seemed more curse than blessing.

He needed to get out of here, go to ground and nurse his wounds. But he also needed to make sure he wouldn’t fall to the first untrained child that tried to take his head, either. 

“Sounds good.”

Methos followed Hank through the corridors, ignoring the way the other man cast sidelong glances at him. Or the way that, once they’d reached the ground floor and encountered the students and staff, others looked at him. Despite being surrounded on all sides by members of the X-men and their students, Methos wasn’t overly worried. They were the good guys, morally obligated to do the right thing, and wouldn’t harm the bad guy unless absolutely necessary. Half of them didn’t even think he was a bad guy. Well, except for Logan that is, but Methos was fairly sure the others would keep him in check, for the most part. 

Besides, they thought he could answer their questions, could tell them how far Stryker’s influence spread. Methos may have been Styker’s right hand man, but that was because it was always good to have an Immortal soldier to jump in front of any stray bullets, not because Stryker trusted him with his plans. His personal assistant, Yuriko Oyama, had been much the same for when Methos hadn’t been around. He shivered a little and folded his arms across his chest. 

“I believe that this is where you will be staying,” Hank told him as he opened one of the many doors lining the corridor. Methos nodded and slipped inside. He murmured a quick goodbye before shutting the door behind him.

-

Methos restlessly paced the hallways of Xavier’s school. He had never been one to sleep well and was not immune to the effects of nightmares. What he had gone through, even while not under the influence of the serum, was etched into his mind. In years it would fade as it always did, but for the time being it was still clear. Flashes of people and places, some clearer than others, plagued his mind. The memory of pain still lingered in his tense muscles. He wondered, momentarily, just how many sleeping pills it would take to knock him out without killing him. Reviving from an overdose was not the most pleasant experience. He wiped a hand down his face wearily and sighed. 

Methos felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as someone watched him. He turned to see a blue-skinned man who seemed vaguely familiar watching him curiously, perhaps even a little cautiously, from down the corridor. Methos stared at him until he advanced slowly forward. Methos didn’t have the patience for this now.

“I remember you from Alkali Lake,” the man told him. Methos thought he remembered him being called Nightcrawler. 

“I can’t say I remember you,” he replied with feigned indifference. The man nodded, as if he had expected nothing else. 

“Kurt Wagner... Nightcrawler.”

Methos gave a curt nod and continued his way down the corridor. Kurt hesitated only a moment before he moved to keep pace. They were silent were a long while.

“Would you like something to drink?” Kurt asked. Methos gave him a half smile, wondering where the apparent non-sequitor had come from. 

“I don’t suppose there’s beer?” he asked. He hadn’t had any at Alkali Lake and his Immortal metabolism meant he needed more calories than he’d been getting. Beer was simply Methos’ favoured method. Kurt shook his head. Methos shrugged and followed Kurt to the kitchen anyway.

After several minutes they were sitting in silence at the table in the kitchen, sipping tea. Methos wondered briefly if MacLeod would keel over if he ever saw Methos drinking anything but beer, before his mind shied away from the thought. 

“I scarred myself for every sin I committed,” Kurt said suddenly, softly. Methos shook his head.

“I would not have enough skin,” he replied. Kurt looked at him appraisingly and Methos met his gaze frankly. Kurt didn’t look away.

“Your healing keeps you from aging, like Logan?” Kurt asked curiously. Methos frowned.

“I suppose a comparison could be made,” he conceded. Logan may have a healing factor, but Methos new that it was not the same as a Quickening, which meant Logan didn’t participate in the Game. 

Methos finished his tea and stared into his cup for a moment, before standing up and putting the cup in the sink. He knew what it was that Kurt ultimately wanted to bring up and he didn’t want to talk about it.

“I think I might try to get some more sleep,” Methos said, though he had no intention of doing so. He figured that now might be a good time to update his journals. They were a few years out of date as it was. Kurt nodded, empathy etched into his strange features. Methos turned away.

-

Rogue watched Lyman as he crossed the mansion’s extensive grounds with loathing in her heart. They said he’d been under the influence of the serum same as the professor and Scott, but what proof did they have? There was only his word and she didn’t trust that at all. 

Some of the other students watched him with wary eyes, but many were equally content to ignore him. What if he turned on them? What if this was all another elaborate ploy? They’d already lost Jean and Rogue couldn’t stand it if they lost anyone else. Lyman seemed to ignore the stares focused on him. There was no hesitancy in his step, no caution at being surrounded by those that wanted him gone. Not a shred of remorse for what he had done.

She moved forwards, following him as he made his way further and further away from everyone else. Slowly, she approached him, thinking she had the advantage, when he turned to look at her. His eyes were cold and distant and she shivered, wondering how they could let him remain amongst them. He had no place with them. 

“Can I help you?” he asked. Even his tone was indifferent. He sounded like Magneto when he was sentencing her to death. 

“Yes,” she said, pulling off a glove, “I think you can.”

He stepped back as she stepped forward, his gaze wary, but she lunged forward and pressed her hand to his cheek. His eyes widened briefly as dark lines snaked out from where her hand rested before his eyes shut and a pained moan was wrenched from his lips. 

Quickly, before he could pull away from her grasp, she focused on his memories of Lyman and brought them to the fore. He pulled weakly at her hand, but she tangled her other hand tightly into his shirt. She had expected triumph, disgust, any number of things associated with fulfilling Stryker’s agenda, but all she found was fear and pain and hate. Abruptly she released him and stepped back, away from him, even if she was unable to remove herself from the memories now in her mind. He dropped to his knees, swaying a little, before he looked up at her, a sneer on his lips. 

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, eyes dark with bitterness and resentment before they closed and he fell to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

Methos opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the infirmary. He felt stripped bare and made vulnerable. His hands clenched tightly into fists until his knuckles began to ache and he forced himself to unclench them. 

“I must apologise for Marie’s actions,” Charles said as he wheeled into the room. Methos remained silent. The girl’s actions had been her own; it was not up to Charles to apologise. 

“You must understand,” Charles continued, “she has experienced much in her short life and has reason for her distrust. She is quite distraught.”

“I must understand nothing!” Methos snarled. He stopped and clenched his teeth to prevent another outburst. It took a moment before he was able to regain control of his temper. He was never this out of control. 

“Of course not,” Charles said with a conciliatory smile. It grated against Methos’ already frayed nerves. He had to leave, he had to get out of this place and hole up somewhere he could lick his wounds in peace. 

“Charles,” Hank said, taking in the scene as he entered the room, “perhaps you could give me a moment with my patient.”

“Of course,” Charles conceded. With a nod to each of the men, he wheeled back out of the room. Hank shut the door firmly behind him. He turned to give Methos an evaluating look.

“Charles is a telepath, as I’m sure you’re aware. Unfortunately, that means he completely lacks any real understanding of the concept of privacy.” Methos simply watched Hank, waiting for the point he was trying to make. “He doesn’t understand the extent to which what Marie did is a violation.”

Methos continued to remain silent, worried that if he gave voice to the storm of emotions writhing beneath his skin that he would be unable to stop. Hank seemed to understand. It wasn’t even that Methos didn’t understand the tactical advantage of knowing a potential enemy’s thoughts, it was just that a larger part of him railed at yet another intrusion into his psyche. Another indignity he had to endure.

“Sometimes trashing a lab helps,” Hank suggested with a toothy smile. Methos was sure there was a story behind that. He pulled Adam Pierson around him and smiled wanly.

“A beer sounds better.”

“I can’t do anything about that, but I do have some particularly fine scotch.”

Dr Adams smirked.

“I could get behind that idea.”

-

Methos had avoided everyone once he’d left Hank’s lab and returned to his room. He didn’t want to deal with any of them, didn’t want to think about anything that had happened. Once hidden away in his room, he pulled out his phone and stared at it for a long moment before he dialled a well remembered number. He had the briefest moment of worry when he wasn’t sure if the number had changed or not in the intervening years before it began to ring and then he was more worried with what kind of reception he would receive.

“Dawson,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.

“Joe.” 

“Methos, is that you?”

“Yeah.” He had no idea what to say beyond that, how to express everything that had happened in such a short time. It must have seemed so very long to Joe.

“Where the hell have you been! First MacLeod wanders off in Paris, with no word on where he’s going, and then you just disappear. At least he said goodbye!”

“Joe,” Methos said again, voice cracking. Joe’s rant immediately silenced.

“Are you alright, old man?”

“Everything’s fine now. I’m fine.” It didn’t sound very convincing to his own ear.

“It’s fine now? So it wasn’t before?” Joe asked, voice urgent. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, you know me,” he said, “here and there.”

“Methos – “

“I thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing.” He’d wanted to hear Joe’s voice. He’d wanted just one thing in his world to right, to be as it was before.

“I’m doing well,” Joe assured him, voice gruff but gentle. “Amy showed up a while back, she’s been helping me out.”

“That’s good, Joe,” Methos said softly, finally feeling like things might actually be okay, that there was a world beyond his fear and pain.

“You gonna let me know where you are?” 

Methos wanted to tell him, wanted to run until he couldn’t run any further, but he wasn’t strong enough yet to fend for himself and anything else would only put Joe in danger.

“Not yet, Joe. I...”

“Don’t sweat it, old man. Your bar tab will be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

Methos smiled. He’d missed Joe.

“Aw, come on Joe, you know I’m good for it.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Methos laughed.

-

Methos opened his door to see Kurt, holding a plate of food. He raised his eyebrows, but Kurt just smiled irrepressibly. With a sigh, Methos opened his door further and gestured the man in.

“You weren’t at dinner.”

“I was distracted,” Methos told him, which had the benefit of being true. 

Kurt handed the plate to him and then settled on the corner of the bed. Methos smiled a little, bemused at Kurt having invited himself in. Kurt stared at him with large eyes until he sat down and began to eat. 

“I know what happened,” Kurt began slowly, considering his words as he spoke. Kurt didn’t weigh in on how he felt about it, just let Methos know that he could speak freely if he desired. 

“I imagine there’s very little that’s kept secret here.” 

It was the nature of small communities for everyone to know everyone else’s business. Kurt shrugged.

“Will you stay?” Kurt asked. He cocked his head to one side as he looked at Methos. Methos thought about Marie and the suspicions the others had, about Hank. He thought about Joe and the fact that he had no idea who else was involved, that he wasn’t anywhere near fighting fit enough to take on an Immortal. He looked down at the plate in his hands.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“It is not so bad,” Kurt said, looking earnestly at him. 

Methos didn’t have a reply to that.

-

Methos stood on the terrace, looking out over the grounds. He liked cities, liked the conveniences of the modern era, but sometimes it was nice to take a step back, find somewhere quiet for a while. Despite the rather rowdy students, the property around the mansion managed to make him feel like there were very few other people in the world.

Of course, the property’s isolation was the very thing that it so easy to infiltrate. He wondered if they would accept any of his suggestions about the security system protecting the property. Despite what some of them thought, and he could still feel the hostile and suspicious glares aimed at him, he wasn’t interested in harming children. Children were, after all, rather precious to most Immortals. Even the Horsemen avoided taking children as slaves, for the most part. Caspian had been a law unto himself. 

Methos shook his head, hoping to dispel the memories. The last thing he needed right now was to add the Horsemen to his repertoire of nightmares and dwelling on the past was a dangerous and useless thing to do. He needed to do something, work out his stress in a better manner than pacing the hallways at night and avoiding everyone. The last time he’d done his katas, or any kind of training, was before Stryker. He assumed, since most of the members of the X-men were trained in combat that they had some kind of facility in which to do so. 

He walked back through the doors and went in search of Scott, who, being team leader, was the most likely to be able to help him. He found Scott walking down a passage on his way to eat lunch. Scott looked at him with a cold glare and Methos’ eyes narrowed. It wasn’t the usual glare he’d been receiving because of his involvement with Stryker, though they had been lessening with the longer he spent at the mansion. He’d been unassuming enough that to most of the inhabitants he simply faded into the background now, but Scott’s glare was almost... personal.

“I was wondering if there was a gym or somewhere I could get some exercise,” Methos asked as he scanned Scott’s expression, trying to judge his intentions. Scott smiled, but it wasn’t a smile that put Methos at ease. He wondered if, perhaps, it would be a good time to make a strategic retreat, but he really was going stir crazy and the only other option was to go hide in his room again. Besides, running away would only give Scott more time to plot whatever revenge he intended.

“There is a room that the team uses for training,” Scott told him.

“Very well,” Methos said, already steeling himself at the glint in Scott’s eyes.

Scott spun around and led Methos at a fast pace down the hall. Methos followed, his long legs easily keeping stride. They stopped outside a plain door that Scott opened with key code and gestured for Methos to enter. Clearly not a room available to everyone then. Which meant it was either a privilege or extremely dangerous. Methos was betting on the latter. He hesitated only a moment before entering the large, empty room. 

Methos looked around in confusion, wondering just what this place was supposed to be. The walls rippled to be replaced by a rather rundown city block. He wondered if this was some sort of holographic training. He moved over to one of the walls and pressed his hand against it and actually felt the coarseness of the bricks. He hadn’t come across technology like this before. 

He stumbled backwards, pain flaring in his shoulder, a moment before he registered the sound of a gunshot. He grunted in pain as he rolled out of the way behind a wall, wondering just what the hell was going on. Holograms weren’t supposed to hurt. He winced as the bone snapped back into place and, with a faint sucking sound, the bullet fell from his flesh and landed with a ping on the ground. He moved his shoulder to ease the pain slightly. 

He heard more gunfire and ducked a little as debris was kicked up around him. What exactly was Scott trying to do? It wasn’t like bullets could kill. Then again, he didn’t exactly relish the pain they caused. It was his own fault since he’d walked right into this. He grinned wickedly. He wanted a way to relieve stress and here it was. Being unarmed was only a minor hindrance. 

Drawing all the pain and anger he’d been feeling and unable to do anything about into a tight knot of determination, Methos listened to the gunfire, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. He carefully timed the moment before he leapt over the wall he’d been hiding behind and sprinted the distance to another wall, closer to the source. He moved quickly and quietly, employing skills he hadn’t used in years, until he could clearly see the figure of a man crouched behind a rundown car.

He smiled, sharp and cold, as he shifted his position. He leapt over the hood of the car and charged at the man. It felt like riding out of the dawn sun; anticipation, triumph and legend all rolled into one. The man shot him twice before Methos reached him, but Methos barely felt it. He struck out at the man, knocking the gun from his hands and grabbed the man’s head, twisting sharply. The man faded before he reached the ground.

Several more gun men appeared, hemming Methos in and he was just getting ready to die painfully when everything faded to the grey room he’d walked into. The door opened and Xavier wheeled in, followed by an angry looking Scott and an almost amused Ororo. Methos coughed a bit, wincing at the pain that lanced through his chest. He wiped the blood on his already tattered and bloody clothing. 

“I hate chest shots,” he said without much inflection. “They hurt like a bitch.” He paused and cocked his head to one side. “Not nearly as bad as head shots though. Those linger.”

“I’m afraid Scott set the training program too high,” Xavier explained. He seemed to do that a lot; make excuses for his students. 

“I’ll be right as rain after a hot bath,” Methos replied. It was the first time in longer than he cared to remember that he’d actually been able to forget about everything, to get out of his head. He stretched, popping bones back into place. “It’s quite fascinating really. Would it be possible to get a look at the hardware? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

-

While Methos had slept a little longer than he usually did, he had still woken at an ungodly hour. He had foregone even trying to sleep and was now sitting in front of the television mindlessly watching something that may or may not have been a soapie. He sipped at his bottle of coke and grimaced. He really needed to buy some beer. 

Tonight it was Logan who was not so discreetly shadowing him. Methos sighed. That wasn’t really fair. There were really only one or two that shadowed his movements, keeping an eye on him, the rest were quite happy to leave him alone or, like Kurt, attempted to draw him into conversation. Logan sat in one of the other chairs, blatantly staring at him as though trying to work out just who he was. 

As much as these people frustrated him, Methos knew that if he wanted to survive the human race evolving – and it would, no matter what extremists tried to do – he would need to show himself as an ally, would need to ingratiate himself with a powerful group willing to fight for and protect him. He and other Immortals may have the ability to heal almost immediately, but that wasn’t much against someone like Logan, whose skeleton was enhanced and who carried six blades around with him. It also wouldn’t help with mutants like Scott or Bobby, who could easily incapacitate Immortals.

His musings were interrupted when someone entered his peripheral vision and hovered there. He looked up to see Marie, Rogue, whatever she called herself. She looked pale. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Had she managed to absorb his Quickening he would either be dead or mortal, which was as good as. Not only that, but she had gone through his memories without his permission. It was an abuse of her power he could have respected if she had directed it at someone else. 

While he was almost positive that she had only seen his time as Lyman, he couldn’t be entirely sure. Should the information about him being Methos get out then his life would be forfeit. He had only survived so long because he was good at hiding and immersing himself in someone else’s identity. After all, who would suspect the oldest Immortal of being a rather slovenly scholar who drank copious amounts of beer?

“I have nightmares,” she told him. He shrugged indifferently and stood, turning away from her, though he was still intensely aware of her and stiffened when she stepped forward. She stepped back again. He’d been acutely aware of everything since he had arrived. Hypervigilance. 

“They’ll fade,” he replied tersely. It was her own fault she was having nightmares.

“It feels so real, like I’m really there when...” she trailed off, wrapping her arms around herself. His eyes, when they met hers, were pitiless. 

“They will fade, they always do,” he told her. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling a phantom sting. Eventually, he knew, the sensation would fade, as would his own nightmares. He’d had enough experience with nightmares to know. She looked down at the floor and mumbled something Methos didn’t catch. “What?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said a bit louder. “I mean for what I did. I didn’t think... I don’t know what I thought, but I needed to know.” He stared at her intently waiting to hear what else she had to say. “I haven’t told anyone anything. I won’t.”

He nodded, somewhat relieved that his private traumas wouldn’t be the fodder for gossip, but still a little annoyed that she was still attempting to justify what she had done. She turned to leave then hesitated, whether to say something further or to expecting him to say something, he wasn’t sure, before she left the room. 

Logan growled from behind him and Methos slowly turned to face him, refusing to show any possibility of feeling threatened. 

“She’s having nightmares because of the things you did, Sparky,” Logan growled, shoving Methos up against the wall. He met Logan’s eyes steadily. The man hadn’t released his blades yet, so Methos figured the situation was far from dire.

“You’re wrong on two fronts,” he said, keeping his tone just short of mocking. “She’s having nightmares because she forced herself into my head, never an entirely healthy place to be, but more so of recent. And it’s most likely the things done to me. Stryker’s men shared his ideology. They really didn’t appreciate having to follow the orders of a freak.” Logan released him and Methos took a moment to collect himself under the guise of straightening his clothing. “There’s nothing anyone can do for her. They’ll fade with time and not before.”

Logan looked at him with as though he was particularly tricky prey before nodding once. Whatever anger had been consuming the other man seemed to fade and he clapped Methos on the shoulder.

“Come on Sparky, I’ve got some beer tucked away.”

Methos watched him with equal intensity for a moment before deciding that it would be better to have another ally among these people. He smiled.

“You have my eternal loyalty.”

-

Methos sat in front of the computer that was housed in the mansion’s basement. It had more processing capacity than any other system he’d seen. He could definitely get used to this. He typed rapidly, eyes not leaving the screen as he frowned in concentration.

He’d phoned Joe again to let him know that he was still fine and still not willing to reveal anything more about what had happened to him. Joe had been sympathetic for all of two minutes before he’d decided Methos needed a kick in the pants. Methos smiled fondly. It was nice to be reminded that there were people who worried about him.

At the moment, he was looking for any evidence as to just who Stryker could have been partnered with. It seemed incredibly unlikely that such a far reaching project didn’t have others involved to ensure its success or to provide an alternate option should it fail. 

Methos had started with newspaper articles and sites about the most avid anti-mutant activists. He’d come up with very little in that area except for a lingering disgust in humanity. He’d then moved on to prominent politicians who opposed mutants and were proponents of mutant registration. The most obvious link had been a Senator Kelley, Methos vaguely remembered hearing something about a year or so ago involving Senator Kelley. He’d have to ask Xavier if Kelley was a possibility. 

Methos had then started to investigate Stryker directly and any links he had with several possible politicians or army generals. There were several links from Stryker’s past, some even as far back as when he was a recruit. The more that Methos found out the more daunting the task became. 

Methos sensed someone walking up behind him, he glanced at the reflection in the monitor before dismissing Ororo as not being an imminent threat and turned back to the by turns engrossing and horrifying research into the extent of anti-mutant support, and not all of it blatant. It had never fully occurred to him just how bad it actually was because it was easy to blend in as a human when you didn’t have blue skin or shoot lasers out of your eyes. His DNA was the same as any other human’s as well, because it wasn’t genetics that made him Immortal, it was his Quickening.

He had gone to great lengths to find out about mutants and just what gave them the classification of mutant, but he had only touched on the political conflict because it, like all others wars he had lived through, was fleeting. Eventually mutants would outnumber humans and that would be it. If anything, his time with Stryker had shown him that that wasn’t the case at all. 

"Have you found much of use?" Ororo asked him. Methos shook his head, his eyes still not leaving the screen as his fingers danced over the keys.

"Not to the investigation, no," he responded. Her eyes quickly scanned the text on screen and she shook her head sadly.

"A bit different on the other side of the conflict, is it not," she commented. Methos nodded without saying anything, there was nothing really to say to that. 

"Could Senator Kelley be involved?" Methos asked after a silence broken only by the tapping of keys. Ororo’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.

"No, the war is not his anymore," she said. Then, at his confusion, added, “He was subjected to an experimental machine and his body lost molecular cohesion. His position was taken over by Mystique, a shape-shifter.”

Methos raised his eyebrows at the explanation and wondered what convoluted story was behind it.

"There’s an army buddy of his from way back who also made general, he seems the most likely bet. They were known to share the same ideas about mutants," Methos told her. "General Blake Ballard has been known to champion the cause of mutant registration as well as holding the that mutants deemed dangerous to humanity should be exterminated." Ororo nodded.

"We know of him," she said, her expression hard. "I will inform the Professor of your discoveries immediately." 

Methos turned back to the computer to continue his search on mutant politics.


	4. Chapter 4

Methos leaned against the stone balustrade of the terrace, ignoring the occasional student as they wandered by, talking quietly to each other. He hadn’t turned the outside lights on, and slowly the light inside the mansion were being turned off. A cold wind was blowing, pulling at his coat, but Methos barely noticed. He stared at the stars, as he had done at various times throughout history, trying to find some meaning in them. 

“As immutable as the stars,” he muttered, wiping a hand down his face. In his experience, the stars had been as immutable as all the civilisations he had lived through. When he was young he remembered the stars being different, there had been stars that now were gone and stars that had not been there now were. It made him feel so very tired. 

Where younger Immortals were able to look at the stars for reassurance that some things stayed the same, he no longer had that luxury. Some days he didn’t know how he stayed sane, some days he wondered if he still was, if he’d ever been.

He shook himself from his morbid thoughts as someone came to stand beside him. He turned to look at Scott.

“You’re worrying the students.”

Methos rolled his eyes and translated that to mean that the students were wondering when he was going to leave so they could have the terrace back to themselves. It was a fairly romantic spot at night. 

“I’m sure they were,” he offered blandly. Scott looked vaguely annoyed and Methos wondered if he could ramp it up to furious. 

“Perhaps you could continue your... contemplations,” Methos was sure there was something far less diplomatic Scott wanted to say there, “elsewhere. I’m sure there are plenty of others who would appreciate your company.”

“But I’m enjoying the night air,” Methos said, smirking when Scott shivered. He’d seen far too little of the open sky over the last few years. “I’ve got a few suggestions for the security system,” Methos said, growing serious. Scott narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve already made improvements,” Scott said, but Methos had still been able to spot some of the weaknesses he had exploited when Stryker had broken in. The only consolation Methos had was that no one else alive knew about them, at least not from him.

Methos turned back when Scott walked away and lifted his face to the sky, enjoying the sting of the cold wind on his face until his ears burned. He was about to turn in a few minutes later when Scott returned. 

“Adam,” Scott said, expression contrite. “Can we talk?”

Methos’ eyes narrowed at the other man, wondering just what his game was. After a pause, Methos nodded. He slid his hands into his coat pockets as Scott drew closer, wrapping his hand around the handle of the knife he had appropriated from the kitchen.

“I was just heading for bed,” Methos said when Scott didn’t say anything immediately.

“Alright,” Scott said, “I want to apologise for the way I’ve been behaving.” He sidled a little closer and Methos shifted a little, easing the knife out of his pocket. 

“Who are you?” Methos asked, edging to one side, trying to get around Scott who blocked his entrance into the mansion. Scott’s face sneered at him before the features began to transform. Methos knew of only one shifter, Mystique. This one, however, appeared to be a man of about 30. Of course, that didn’t mean that this was his true appearance. 

“Paranoid, aren’t you?” the other man said with a sneer. Methos said nothing, but he flexed his hand around the knife handle, getting a good grip. “I was paid rather a lot of money to deliver you.”

They both sprung into action at the same time. Methos ducked a punch and raised the knife, slicing at the man’s forearm. He man caught the blow on a wrist guard and twisted. Methos grimaced as his wrist was wrenched, but kept a firm grasp on the knife. 

At least now he knew for certain that someone knew all about Stryker’s plans and wanted Methos for something. Methos shied away from the thought of spending the next few years the same way he had the last. 

Methos yelled for help, not caring if anyone would think him a coward for doing so. Survival trumped indignity, every time. The shifter sprang at him, knocking him to the ground and punched him. Methos raised the knife just as the man wrapped his hands around Methos’ throat.

“I can cut your throat a lot faster than you could strange me,” Methos told him, face expressionless. They were frozen like that for a long moment until a blast of red light knocked the shifter off Methos and into the balustrade. He pulled himself up and looked over to see Scott and Logan in the doorway, followed closely by Ororo and Kurt. Methos slipped the knife back into his pocket while Scott and Logan went to take care of the shifter.

“You really should update your security,” Methos told them, looking at Scott specifically, as he rubbed at the fading bruises on his neck. The other man glared at him. 

“We are in the process of doing so,” Ororo assured him and Methos smirked at Scott. Logan dragged the shifter away and Methos wondered if they were going to question him.

“Are you alright?” Kurt questioned softly.

“I’m fine,” Methos assured him. Kurt nodded, but still eyed him worriedly.

“Perhaps someone should stay with you in case something like this happens again,” Ororo suggested. 

“No,” Methos said a little too hurriedly. He really did not want a babysitter following him at all times. On the other, hand he really did not want to be Ballard’s lab rat. Especially as he still suspected that there was serum left somewhere. “Fine,” he relented with a sigh.

“I’ll take first watch,” Kurt insisted. Methos frowned. ‘First watch’ made it sound like he was a prisoner. Ororo nodded.

“We shall discuss the situation with the Professor in the morning,” she told them before turning and following Logan. 

Methos and Kurt were left standing on the terrace. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered if there was a mutant who could turn back time. Five years would be nice. He looked at Kurt and sighed. There was no way he was going to get any sleep anytime soon. 

“Coffee?” Kurt offered.

“Why not.”

-

Nothing much changed after that except for Kurt, and occasionally Logan or Hank, stationing themselves outside his door for the rare times he was there. He tried not to think about it and instead worried about who wanted him and why. Methos had taken to focusing on his research during the days and restlessly pacing the halls of the mansion during the nights. 

He wondered when his life had become so absolutely crazy. Had it been when he had become Sergeant Lyman or, before that, when he had allowed himself to be sucked into MacLeod’s world, or had it been long before that when he had joined the Watchers? His life had been reasonably quiet since he had left the Horsemen. Except for the brief interlude with Byron, and being part of the underground railroad, and intermittently strategically retreating when Kronos got too close for comfort, and the various other wars and challenges he had lived through. Methos snorted. So maybe his life hadn’t been that quiet, but at least it used to have a few years of peace now and then. Now he had old enemies coming out of the woodwork, old friends too, demons, dark Quickenings, and mutants. Methos sighed. He must have been cursed with an interesting life at birth. 

Methos paced, counting the space of his room in steps. The most important thing now was finding out if Ballard was behind the attack and if not him, then who. He couldn’t afford to have an unknown enemy of unspecified capabilities after him. He sighed. This line of thinking was getting him nowhere. All he could do was make contingency plans for the fallout, until he found out more about who was after him, what their capabilities were, and how far their influence stretched. Methos, for the umpteenth time in the last few days, made his way down to the computer, with the intention of hacking into every known and several unknown databases. He was stopped by Charles as he reached the bottom of the main staircase.

“The fight yesterday has the students rather excited,” Charles told him. He lacked the unbounded enthusiasm Methos remembered from the first time he’d met him. Methos nodded, it was only to be expected. Charles stared at Methos intently as though trying to look straight through him. Methos, knowing of Charles’s talents, tried to keep his mind as blank as possible. 

“You were studying to become a doctor the last time we met, were you not?” Charles asked him. Methos nodded, wondering just what Charles was getting at. Charles smiled reassuringly, which did not reassure Methos at all. “With the... disappearance of our previous doctor we have found a need for a new one. Hank was only ever a temporary measure. Methos raised an eyebrow, wondering what Scott would think about him accepting Jean’s old position. 

“Hank and Ororo have both recommended you for the position,” Charles said. “Scott did not disagree.”

That wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. He wondered how much it must have pained Scott to   
acknowledge that Jean's position needed to be filled. It was almost like accepting that she was gone forever. Methos didn't know the whole story, he hadn't been alive at the time, but what he had managed to piece together showed that it was likely that she was dead. Finally, he nodded.

“Very well,” Methos said, “I’ll take the position.” They needed a doctor and he could fill the position. It might even endear himself to the others, gain their loyalty. 

“Now, about the knife,” Charles began. Methos hadn't realistically been hoping that the others hadn't noticed, but he could have done without the complication. It was his only weapon and it had already saved his freedom, if not his life. He raised an eyebrow and Charles sighed but didn’t argue. 

-

Methos sat with several of the younger students watching television. The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy, to be exact. He knew he would probably regret having watched it in several hundred years when he could still remember it with startling clarity. He had yet to decide whether the extraordinary recall of Immortals was a good thing or not. 

He watched as the children all stared with intense concentration at the television. Feeling ancient Methos remembered when he’d already been old and he’d hunted with the other men, telling stories around the fire at night as a way of passing the dark hours while the children played at being adults. 

Methos smiled slightly. There were some things that would never change and some things that would never be the same again. He wondered just how much change he would live through, but he knew the answer to that. He would live through as much as occurred until he died, which he didn’t plan any time soon. 

“Adam,” Ororo said, interrupting his thoughts and he looked up. She stood next to a girl of about fourteen who looked pretty scraped up. Her knees and hands were bleeding. Methos stood immediately and walked over to them.

“What’s your name?” he asked her. She looked at Ororo for reassurance. Ororo nodded encouragingly. Methos resisted the urge to sigh. Even the ones who didn’t resent him didn’t exactly trust him. 

“Andrea,” the girl told him. Methos smiled at her. 

“Well, Andrea, why don’t we take a look at your cuts.” She still looked nervous. “Ororo, if you have a moment to spare, I can give you the book I recommended.”

Ororo smiled at him, aware that he had recommended no such thing, but that Andrea looked much happier about going with him. Andrea nodded. The three of them walked to where Jean had kept her office and Andrea climbed onto the bed that stood in the middle of the room. She looked around herself curiously while Methos grabbed some disinfectant and cotton wool. He doubted that the scrapes would need much else and the fresh air would do them more good than wrapping them up would. 

“So Andrea, read any good books recently?” he asked her as he poured some disinfectant onto the cotton wool. Andrea glanced at Ororo who stood just inside the door. 

“I’ve just finished Night Circus,” she said as Methos dabbed at the scrape on her right knee. She winced but didn’t complain. 

“It’s a good book,” Methos said. 

“You’ve read it?” she asked and grinned when he nodded. Methos moved on to cleaning her hands. He noticed as Ororo slipped quietly out of the room, but Andrea didn’t seem to as she launched into a discussion of the characters.


	5. Chapter 5

Hank rested a hand on Methos’ shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Despite the fact that he knew it wasn’t entirely true, Methos felt like he was losing his one true ally in this place. He was certainly losing the one person Methos knew would stand up to Xavier and as much as he hated to admit it, he had begun to rely on having that as a plan B if something went wrong, if they turned on him or decided he was holding back answers that endangered them. They were good guys, he knew, but he’d seen what atrocities good men could convince themselves were right. 

“I must return to Washington,” Hank told him. “The attack on the president and the situation with Stryker have opened up the issue of mutants to questions we may not yet be ready to face.”

“I understand,” Dr Adams said, spine straight. Adam Pierson gave Hank a wry smile. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted. Hank stared at him piercingly for a moment, before he smiled toothily back.

“Of course you will,” he said with confidence. “But just in case, I’ve left information in your room on how to contact me. I will be available if you need me.”

Methos nodded. He appreciated it; appreciated that he wouldn’t actually be losing an ally, but he said nothing. Kurt hovered just behind him, at his right shoulder, and Hank glanced at the other blue mutant and nodded. Kurt must have nodded back, because Hank gave him a quick smile before he turned to Xavier. 

Xavier and Hank stared at each other intently for a long moment in which Xavier frowned deeply before clearing away any expression. Hank glanced back briefly at Methos before glancing away again. Xavier nodded finally and Methos wished he knew what the hell they were talking about. 

Methos didn’t watch as Hank got in the car and drove away, it felt too much like desperation, but he didn’t shrug off Kurt’s three fingered hand from his shoulder, either.

“I could use a beer,” Logan said suddenly and he jerked his head to indicate they join him. Methos followed, Kurt close on his heels.

-

Having decided that discretion was the better part of valour, Methos didn’t venture off the grounds. In fact, he hardly left the mansion at all. After all, with grounds as large as the mansion’s and considering the ease with which the mansion had been infiltrated several times, it meant more risk than he was willing to take.

Methos sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee to keep him awake. He hadn’t slept much in the last few weeks, nightmares plaguing the few hours of sleep he did manage. They would fade in a couple of months. He knew that. The extreme clarity and intense emotions that accompanied them were already starting to do so. Something to be grateful for, he thought. He always had a slightly paranoid awareness of his surroundings, but the obsessive edge would eventually fade as well. He would be back to normal, for the most part, in a few months if he could avoid Ballard for that long. Unfortunately, he knew that his luck was never that good.

“You are good with children,” Ororo said as settled in opposite him, cradling a cup of tea in her hands. Adam Pierson shrugged, uncomfortable at being startled at her arrival when he hadn’t heard her. Death catalogued his weapons, from the kitchen knife in the small of his back to the hot coffee in his mug, and how quickly he could deploy them. Ororo smiled at him.

“I’ve had some practice,” he replied, trying to draw himself away from his preoccupation with his nightmares, away from Death.

“Do you have children of your own?” she asked him, clearly trying to find out more about the man they’d invited into their midst. Methos wiped a hand down his face, before he looked back up at her with clear eyes. 

“I can’t have children, but I’ve looked after many,” he told her. She smiled sadly at him. 

“It is a pity. You would make a good father,” she said. 

Ben Adams smiled self-deprecatingly. He doubted that any child would grow up well-adjusted with him for a father. He had cared for many children with his wives, but had seldom been able to stay long enough to watch them grow up. At the first sign of someone noticing him not aging, he left. He’d been stoned and burned and beaten to death enough times to learn that lesson. Ororo watched him intently for a moment before she sighed. 

“We are worried about you,” she told him. Dr Adams raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever for?” 

He wondered if Ororo had drawn the short straw about confronting him. Perhaps not. After all, Scott wasn’t likely to have a civil conversation with him any time soon. Logan wasn’t the kind to talk about feelings. He didn’t trust Xavier and Xavier knew it. And Kurt knew too much about his time at Alkali Lake for Methos to be comfortable opening up to him. That left Ororo.

“It is not a weakness to have problems after what you experienced,” she said, voice carefully modulated and soothing. Death rankled. He knew it did not mean he was weak. He had experienced enough in his many years to understand that. “You were in a situation for over a year where you had no control at all and you were made to do things against your will,” she continued. “It is understandable that you would have trouble dealing with that.”

Methos met her gaze straight on, his expression carefully neutral. Not even Kronos had exerted that much power over him and he was immune to the Voice. No one had ever been able to control him so completely, until Stryker. He had been utterly powerless for the majority of the time and that was likely to screw up anyone, even five thousand year old men. They didn’t know all that had happened. Kurt might have an idea and Marie definitely seemed to know, but the rest had no clue. 

Adam Pierson raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. Catching the telltale gesture, Dr Adams instead ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. Ororo rested a hand on his arm.

“We are all here for you if you need us,” she told him. He nodded once, stiffly, as she stood and left. 

Methos sat there for a long time, his thoughts running in useless circles. He finally growled impatiently and rose, intending to go to his room and attempt to get at least another hour of sleep. 

He was halfway back to his room when the alarms sounded. Fear coiled, cold and jittery, in the pit of his stomach and he warred between hiding in his room and making sure nothing was going to harm the students. He wrapped a hand around the knife at his back and moved silently down the hallway, toward the noise. He had a strong suspicion it was whoever was behind the shapeshifter come to finish off what Stryker started.

When he arrived in the foyer, he saw Logan and Bobby staving off men dressed in army fatigues. The last time they’d been attacked, they hadn’t been able to stop the attack, only hold them off long enough to get the remaining children to safety. Death shifted the grip on his knife and entered the fray. He was at an advantage, since the soldiers’ guns were mostly useless in close quarters and Methos had thousands of years worth of experience. 

“Sergeant,” a mocking voice greeted Methos and Adam Pierson stilled instinctively and hunched, presenting a smaller target. His soldiers hadn’t crossed him while he’d been under the influence of the serum, because while they had not respected a mutant, as they had seen him, they had respected his brilliance at tactical and strategic planning. Without the serum he’d been fair game. Death spun, knife held in a reverse grip, his eyes burning with cold fury. 

“Peters,” Death snarled at his once-subordinate. The man smirked at him, then lunged, dagger slashing dangerously close to Methos’ chest. It was a stupid move, giving up the element of surprise by calling out to him, especially because Peters had never been particularly gifted at combat.

Deftly dodging Peters, he brought up his own blade and ducked inside Peters’ guard. His knife sliced deeply into soft flesh and Peters’ eyes widened as blood began to flow from a deep wound across his stomach. 

Methos almost felt sorry for him. He’d been raised into prejudice and had followed the values that world had taught him. Methos, however, had seen many prejudiced societies in his time, had openly supported and upheld several, but he had also seen many people who had campaigned for change and had succeeded. Blind prejudice was no excuse. 

Death had already forgotten Peters as he moved on to fight the next soldier in what appeared to be an infinite number of them. He caught sight of Logan savagely tearing into several soldiers at once and they grinned ferociously at each other. Bobby faltered and Methos slashed at the soldier who had tried to take advantage. Bobby nodded to him and they separated again. 

Methos heard a different cry, pitched higher than those of the wounded men. He turned and saw, through the mass of people, several scared children. He viciously slaughtered the soldier in front of him before a deathly silence fell over the foyer, broken only by the soft whimpers of the children as they looked to their teachers and fellow student to save them. 

Scott and Xavier came in the entrance behind them to stand with them as they faced the soldiers. General Ballard stepped forward, looking as impeccable as his photographs and completely unmarred by the gore around him. While his men looked impressed at the image he projected, Methos felt only disdain. All it showed was that he did not fight his own battles. Ballard looked them over, his eyes settling on Methos. Dr Ben Adams raised an indifferent eyebrow in response. 

“We suggest an exchange,” Ballard said, turning to Xavier and Scott. “The children for the Sergeant.”

Xavier raised a hand to his forehead, then frowned and Methos realised the soldiers helmets were lined with something the blocked Xavier’s ability. 

“That’s not an option,” Scott told Ballard. Methos stared at Scott for a long moment, wondering just what he was thinking. He was nothing to them, an old enemy turned ally seeking sanctuary; not nearly as important to them as their students. The X-men all tensed in anticipation as Ballard stared at them in as much surprise as Methos was feeling.

“Very well,” Ballard said, grabbing the first child, a girl of about thirteen. Death shifted his grip on the blade and launched himself forward, knocking Ballard away before he could even think of harming the girl. The soldiers and the X-men sprang into action at once and the children used the distraction to escape. 

“You can’t expect them to accept you when they find out about your past,” Ballard said with a curious mixture of pity and disdain. Methos stepped forward until he was towering over the shorter man. 

“They know about Stryker,” Methos said. Ballard glanced around and saw that the soldiers were steadily retreating. He smirked at Methos as he took several steps back.

“Come and see,” was all he said before he turned and ordered his men to retreat. They fled with the precision only military-trained troops possessed. The X-men forbore going after them to deal with the more important problem of dealing with the children who were undoubtedly scared and anxious about what had happened. It was, after all, the second time that they had been involved in a military strike in a short period of time. 

Methos held himself together, jaw tightly clenched, as he walked away from the scene. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he felt shaky and weak. Somehow Ballard knew. Adam Pierson quailed inside at the thought of being the focus of such intense scrutiny. Ben Adams wanted to run and hide and never look back. Methos pulled Death to him. Death had no fear, felt no doubt. Death was strong and sure. Methos’s mouth pulled into a slow smile. Death was inescapable.

Methos had no idea how he knew, but he knew, and only Cassandra and MacLeod could have told him, which meant several things. Either Cassandra had decided to get her revenge, MacLeod had betrayed him or either one or both of them had been tortured for the information. After that thought, Methos hurried at a pace just short of running to the large computer in the basement.

He quickly logged into the Watchers’ Database, using Joe’s details as he technically no longer had access. Scanning the information he found there he wasn't sure whether he ought to be relieved or even more worried. Cassandra was in a convent in France and MacLeod was doing a bit of travelling around Europe. Nothing indicated that they had been in contact with anyone connected to anything to do with Ballard. Which meant that Ballard had got the information from elsewhere which worried Methos immensely. There was no one else alive that knew.

If Ballard knew then he would also know about Immortals, which could and probably would be disastrous. Stryker had been surprised to find two people with healing abilities. Methos himself had been found completely by accident and had been promoted to Stryker's right hand man when it was found he was quite brilliant at planning. If Ballard knew that there was a whole race of Immortals out there he would stop at nothing until he had coerced them into working for him. Methos hoped that there was no longer any of the serum left and that the rest had been buried with the base, but he was not willing to delude himself   
that much. 

Methos wasn't sure which worried him more, the fact that Ballard might want an Immortal army or that Ballard wanted him for something. Something that evidently had to do with what he had found out. Methos shuddered to think of what that might be. 

Methos knew the passages concerned off by heart. ‘ _When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the fourth living creature saying "Come and see!" And behold, a pale horse, and he who sat on it, his name was Death. Hades followed with him. Authority over one fourth of the earth, to kill with the sword, with famine, with death, and by the wild animals of the earth was given to him._ ’ Somehow, Ballard knew of his past as Death.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have this thing where I like young!Charles and find old!Charles creepy and manipulative, so no Charles/Methos. If anything, it’ll end up Methos/Logan, but I’ll probably keep it gen.

Methos spent the next few days chafing at the restrictions, those placed on him and those he placed on himself. There was very little privacy left to be had, but when he weighed that up against the possibility of capture and a repeat of what he’d experienced under Stryker it wasn’t much of a contest. There was never a member of the X-men very far away. It rankled to someone continually invading his privacy but he reminded himself repeatedly that he had asked for this and that this was better than being locked up somewhere for Ballard’s amusement.

He’d called Joe more than once, just to reassure the other man he was alive, but refused to reveal his location because he wanted Joe as far away from this as possible. The mortal wasn’t as young as he used to be and Methos was sure Ballard would use any resource against him, including his friends. That was why he also left a message with MacLeod’s and Amanda’s voicemail telling them to be careful. It was possible that Ballard knew about Immortals, but there was still a chance that he didn’t and Methos was not going to be the one to confirm that fact by inviting MacLeod along for the ride. There was nothing, after all, that MacLeod could add to or do better than the X-men. 

There was one thing that could be positive about the whole ordeal; despite the close quarters, and the problems they caused, he had come to know the members of the X-men better. While he doubted that he and Scott would ever be friends, they had come to tolerate each other. He could see Marie without quite so much anger bubbling to the surface. He spent most of his time with Logan and Kurt, however. Even Ororo, who he had been reluctant to befriend at first, had become something of an ally. They got along well when she wasn’t pushing him to talk about his feelings. He felt more comfortable having allies that would defend him.

He had also seen a number of students with scrapes and scratches that he had patched up. Nothing serious, just the kinds of injuries the came with being at a school with super-powered students. After the first few, the children had no longer been afraid to approach him, which made things a little easier for him. Things settled into a normal rhythm. Well, as normal as it could ever get at a school for children with mutant powers. Almost despite himself, Methos caught himself enjoying the time he spent there, despite the threat of Ballard hanging over his head.

Some part of him, the part that was Ben Adams and a little Adam Pierson, the part that sought out healing and teaching, wondered if he could stay when all of this was over. Even if Jean returned, he hoped that he could remain. Of course, that was only if he was invited to stay. The only reason he was here in the first place was because Ballard was out there planning some way to capture him. Then again, the longer he stayed, the more likely they were to find out about Immortals. Even if they did not find out about them from Ballard first. 

He had reached a strange sort of equilibrium. It had been almost two weeks since the last attempt to capture him and it had been unnaturally quiet since then. Ballard had made no known move in that time. Normally, he would have enjoyed the peace while he could, but then he did not normally have an army general with a penchant for genocide out to get him. It had come to the point where he almost wanted Ballard to try something just so that he could release some of his frustrations.

He prided himself on his ability to mask his emotions and act in the manner most liable to keep him alive. But having someone constantly in close proximity was sorely testing his skills. It briefly crossed his mind that perhaps Kronos had been right, he had grown soft. The X-men respected his privacy as much as possible but they also knew that he would be a dangerous weapon in Ballard’s hands.

He had been bad enough under Stryker’s command and Stryker had known only that he could heal at an alarming rate. He had not known about Immortals or more specifically about his past as Death. Ballard would no doubt exploit that to the fullest. Methos had not been Death in many years. He had pulled on various aspects of Death to survive over the years, but he had not donned the mask of Death in its entirety since the Horsemen had disbanded.

He was not willing to become Death for anyone. He had worked hard to win his freedom from Death and that freedom had been bought with blood and tears. Methos knew logically that willingness had absolutely nothing to do with the serum though. That chapter of his life, however, was not one he wanted to visit again. He wondered idly why no one ever stumbled across the lives where he had not been an unrepentant bastard bent on ruling the world. 

-

Methos could feel Ororo watching him from the corner of her eye as he scribbled in his journal. Despite trying to appear as at-ease as possible, he knew the tension in his shoulder was painfully obvious. 

“Something will happen soon,” she told him, though she had no assurances as to what it might be. Death ignored her and Ben Adams grunted and carried on writing in his journal. He was not in the mood for platitudes. 

Several members of the X-men had sneaked looks at the book, but none of them had been able to understand any of the markings. Since Kalas, Methos had become paranoid about people reading what he’d written, and had taken to writing in a variety of old languages, most of which had been forgotten over the years.

“Dinner will start in a moment,” Ororo said, scrambling for something to say to him. He knew he hadn’t exactly been good company the last few days. There were some things for which he’d never really learned to exercise patience. Anticipating torment and mortal peril was one of them. Ororo frowned, clearly worried, and Methos chafed at that, though he kept his expression neutral. He knew he’d lost weight when he’d already had precious little to lose. Even increasing his caloric intake would take some time correct what he’d been through.

He sighed. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he knew he needed to keep his strength up. Besides, Ororo wouldn’t leave him alone until he did. Nodding, he stood up and closed his journal, leaving it on the table.

“Very well,” he conceded.

They walked out of the room together and down the dining room in silence, which was something he appreciated about her. Several of the children called out greetings and Methos smiled and greeted them in return. The tension leeched from his shoulders and his gait became more relaxed. He had always been fond of children. 

The X-men didn’t react when he settled in beside them, partly because some of them still didn’t care for his presence at the manor, but mostly because they had all been in his unenviable position themselves, of being the focus of a bad guy or having done something they regretted. He took a plate and started putting food on it as he listened to the conversations around him.

“We still need two more adults to supervise the trip to the museum on Friday,” Scott said. Methos raised his head a little as he focused more of his attention on the conversation. He could use a change of scenery before his restlessness got the better of him.

“I’ll do it,” Methos told them. The team looked at him in surprise and Adam Pierson smiled his unassuming smile and shrugged. “If you all leave on this outing then the mansion will be vulnerable. I’ll be safest with all of you.” 

“He’s right,” Xavier agreed. Ben Adams smirked a little, wondering if he could convince a certain Highlander of that. “While you are all away for the day, Adam will be vulnerable here,” Xavier continued. “Scott, I want you to stay with him the entire time. We cannot allow Ballard to get his hands on Adam.”

Scott’s expression was reluctant, bordering on mutinous, but he nodded regardless.

“Respect your elders,” Methos told him irreverently as the others began to talk amongst themselves.

“I will when they act it,” Scott snapped.

“Acting your age is overrated,” Methos said, wondering what that even meant for him. Either he would have been dead 5000 years ago, if you took into account the age at which he first died and became Immortal, or he’d really love to know what exactly a 5000 year old man should act like. Ben Adam gave Scott a patronising smile and turned back to his food.

-

Methos climbed out of the bus and looked up at the museum. He always found museums to be curious things. The fact that people gathered things from the past to put on display with mostly incorrect interpretations had always amused him. That he would occasionally find something that belonged to him disturbed him. It had taken him some time to understand humanity’s fascination with a past he’d lived through and often would prefer to forget. 

He had taken many jobs as a linguist, historian, archaeologist or anthropologist but that was because it was easy for him. After all, he was not discovering anything new, just using what he already knew. It was a while before he realised that while historians were interested in finding out how things came to be the way they are, they were more concerned with the who than the how and the why. The truly good historians wanted to find out about the people involved in history and that was something he could understand. He was one of a small group of people that had actually lived through it, after all. 

“Hey Sparky, you just gonna stare at the building all day or are you going to go in?” Logan asked him. Methos shook himself out of his thoughts. He would need to remain alert today especially. 

“Just admiring the architecture,” Methos replied blandly as he began to walk up the steps. Scott jogged up the stairs to catch up to him and Logan.

“History not your thing?” he asked after taking one look at Methos’ expression.

“People lived, they loved, they fought and then they died,” Methos said with a shrug, his expression amused as he watched Scott’s indignant reaction. Logan snorted.

“There’s so much more to it than that,” Scott insisted. Methos assumed that his education had given him an appreciation for history and what he could learn from great historical figures. Methos raised an eyebrow and glanced at Logan who smirked in return. If there was anything that they had in common, beer aside, it was their love for tormenting the team leader.

“I’m sure there is,” he said, his tone indicating that he was saying it just for Scott’s benefit. Scott glared at him.

“Next time the Professor is babysitting you himself,” Scott commented, shooting Methos a disparaging look. Ben Adams grinned.

“I’m sure the professor would appreciate the benefit of my esteemed company,” Methos said. Scott opened his mouth to reply then shut it and shook his head. Logan snickered at Methos’ other side. 

“We should catch up with the kids,” Scott finally told them. They quickened their pace until the group of children was in view. 

Several hours later even the children were lagging and Methos and Scott had fallen to the back once again. Methos enjoyed baiting the leader of the X-men more, in some ways, than he had the Highlander. MacLeod had, after all, grown up some while Methos had known him and he seemed have grown some immunity to Methos’ taunts. Scott, however, was just as easily riled as the Highlander had first been and without the benefit of over 400 years of experience from which to learn. As they walked Methos kept an eye on his surroundings, immediately determining to what degree each person his gaze landed on was a threat.

“This can’t be good for my blood pressure,” he complained. Scott glanced at him briefly before smirking.

“Your healing factor should make that irrelevant,” he said indifferently. Methos glared at him.

“I’ll tell Xavier you weren’t a good nanny if you aren’t careful,” Ben Adams said with an irreverent grin. Scott glared back.

“I am not a nanny,” he replied archly. “Besides, that would make you the equivalent of a child.” Adam Pierson faked a sweet smile and batted his eyelashes at the other man.

“I’m a child at heart,” he said. Scott snorted.

“More like a delinquent,” he murmured. Methos shrugged.

“I can’t help it if my inner child has issues,” he replied unconcernedly. Scott shook his head in amusement.

“Sometimes-“ Scott began before he abruptly cut off. Methos grabbed the other man before he collapsed to the ground. He swore when he noticed the blood oozing from his shoulder and spreading rapidly beneath him. He pulled Scott with him as he went for whatever cover he could find. 

He heard an alarm go off and he swore again. He looked around for the X-men but all he saw was people clearing out of the room. He caught a glint from across the street through the large windows and ducked just as a bullet slammed into his chest. He was knocked to the ground with the impact and cried out as pain flared. He was almost certain that the bullet had managed to hit his spine.

“Sadistic bastards,” he commented, sure that they had done that on purpose. Even someone with a healing factor like his would take a while to heal a spinal injury. He almost wished that they had taken a head shot instead. Those hurt like hell but were much easier to heal. 

As the world faded to black Methos wondered where the X-men were and cursed himself for letting himself get soft enough to actually rely on them when he knew he could never depend on anyone but himself.

“Damn typical,” he murmured as he slipped into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrible cliffhanger, I know. I'll try and get the next chapter out soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it wasn't as soon as I had planned, but better late than never, right?

Methos kept his body relaxed as he regained consciousness, to appear asleep should anyone be monitoring him. Memories surged through his mind and he forced himself to take several calming breaths until he could make sense of it all. He systematically went through who his present identity was, where he was likely to be, and his last memories before his death. The memories finally faded, leaving him with only an echo of the panic that accompanied every revival.

Methos opened his eyes to see a white ceiling, then turned his head to see a white wall. In fact, he was in a uniformly white room that held only the bed on which he was lying. He was dressed in a pair of thin of white pants and nothing else. Still, there was no chill, so they cared enough at least to keep him moderately comfortable. 

He made no move to even so much as turn over. His back was pulsing with agony and it would be a while before it faded. He wondered just how long he had been unconscious. He spared a thought for Scott and wondered if he had been captured as well. He doubted it. Ballard had been pursuing him, not the team leader. 

He lay for several long minutes before he dragged himself into a sitting position and took another look around. There was the faint outline of a door on the wall opposite him, but no way for him to open it. Eventually, someone would come for him, or at least come to him, if only to give him food. He doubted Ballard would kidnap him only to leave him in a locked room with no way out. At least he hoped not. 

After stretching to relieve the pain that lingered after healing, Methos began to pace and consider his options. It was quite likely that he would be injected with the serum again, but he could not prevent it if it did happen. What he wanted to know was why Ballard wanted him specifically. It was not as though he knew much about Stryker’s operation or even that he was the most powerful immortal. If he wanted strength, then he was better off with someone like MacLeod, and if he wanted intelligence then there were other mutants and Immortals just as intelligent as he was. He just had more opportunity to accumulate knowledge and put it into practice. 

He was hungry, which told him that it had been at least a day since he had been kidnapped, but the sensation was not nearly as desperate as the times he had starved to death and so it was easily ignored. He began to pace the walls of his room systematically running his hands along the walls. The only opening he found was the door and he had nothing with which to pry it open. Kicking the door established that it was made out of solid metal and a lot sturdier than his foot. It did, however, briefly ease his frustration.

He glared at the camera that hung from the ceiling in a corner of the room and paced some more. If they were trying to make him go insane then the leap might not be a great one. He looked around the white room and was tempted to bleed everywhere just to add some colour.

He began to laugh hysterically before abruptly cutting himself off. He knew he was beginning to panic and had to force himself to take deep breaths so that he would not hyperventilate. This wasn’t happening again, he insisted to himself. It could not be.

“Pull yourself together, Old Man,” Ben Adams said, contemptuous of the way he was falling apart. He settled, cross-legged, on the end of the bed, watching the door for a long time before it finally slid open. Death rose off the bed and stood facing the door, waiting to see what would happen. 

Three men entered the white room, two of whom he recognised as having served under him when he was Sergeant Lyman. They must have been away from the base when it had been attacked and were undoubtedly now working for Ballard. At least their presence confirmed that it was, in fact, the General who had orchestrated his kidnapping.

“Ballard wants to see you,” the first one said. He looked at Methos with disdain and Methos knew what was coming next. As long as he was healed by the time of the meeting and there was no lingering evidence, they could do whatever they liked. 

He dodged the first punch only to be tripped by one of the other men. The two that he recognised, that had ostensibly served under him, had transformed beating him up into an art form. Of course, they had had plenty of practice. Methos had not been under the serum for the duration of this time as Lyman and they did not have to respect the ‘mutant freak’ when he was not their superior. After all, Stryker had only needed him when there were missions to plan or conduct, the rest of the time he was fair game. As long as the mission was not jeopardised, Stryker could not have cared less. There had been times when their actions reminded him of his time with Kronos. There had only been one defence against Kronos.

Methos wrapped Death around him like an old, comfortable cloak, drawing on the strength and insanity of his alter. He would use Death to destroy those who threatened him. Death snarled. This time he would not let them take out their frustrations at mutants on him. Under Stryker’s command, he had lost hope that his nightmare would ever end after months of being subjected to the serum and the anger of his subordinates. This time was different. So very different. There was little enough of the serum left and he had the X-men on his side. He knew without doubt that they would not let Ballard follow through with his plans.

Before either of the men could react, the first’s neck had been snapped. The second drew the gun at his side and shot Methos. Methos managed to dodge out of the way enough that the bullet only hit his shoulder. He looked down at the wound for a moment as though it did not belong to him, then turned to look at the second man, who was intelligent enough to look terrified. Methos grabbed the gun from him and shot. The man ducked out of the way and the bullet hit the third man who Methos had not recognised, and he fell to the ground.

The second man rushed at Methos and he fell to the ground with the breath knocked out of him. He kicked at the man who was savagely clawing, punching and kicking at him. It seemed that the death of his two colleagues was a bit of a blow to him. Methos smiled vindictively, and once again kicked at the man. He stumbled backwards and Methos stood, towering over him.

"What are you?" the man asked fearfully, never having seen this side of the Immortal. Methos smirked.

"I'm Death," he replied before leaning down and with a quick twist he broke the man’s neck. The body fell to the ground, limp and lifeless. Methos cricked his neck, cracked his knuckles and walked out of the doorway. He didn't even notice his bloody appearance, the disconcerting way in which his bruises faded and disappeared or the way in which the wound in his shoulder was still sluggishly bleeding.

He came across several more soldiers, but none of them proved to be much of a challenge. He finally reached a pair of large oak doors. He opened them with a crash and glanced at the room before him. Ballard stood looking out of a window with his back to the rest of the room. The room was filled with an assortment of valuable and old artefacts. To Methos they smacked of someone who was trying to prove that he was rich and knowledgeable instead of someone who liked what he owned. 

"You are late," Ballard said without turning around.

"I was unavoidably detained," Methos replied, his voice and expression devoid of emotion. Ballard spun around to see a bloody Methos with tattered pants that had only an hour ago been white. The bullet from his shoulder dropped to the floor as the wound drew closed, blue sparks dancing over healing flesh. Methos bent down and picked it up. He fingered the bullet and looked up at Ballard with eerie golden-green eyes before straightening.

"I believe you wished to see me," he said softly as he took first one menacing step forward, then another.

Ballard looked unfazed, as though he was not facing a legend tainted with the darkness that had supplied millennia of nightmares. Methos cocked his head to the side. He bore an amused smile as he continued to advance.

“I have an offer for you,” Ballard told him. Methos did not reply but kept stalking slowly forward, watching the other man with a predatory smile. Ballard began to look nervous when there was no reply and his boldness began to fade. “I can give you the world at your mercy.” 

“I’ve had the world at my feet. It wasn’t much of a challenge.”

“I can give you the abilities necessary to win the Prize,” Ballard continued. By this point Methos was standing in front of him, looking him directly in the eye.

“Whatever gave you the idea that I wanted the Prize?” he asked. He grabbed Ballard by the neck and pushed him up against the wall. He stared into Ballard’s eyes, enjoying the look of fear in them. Death smiled coldly and increased his grip. Ballard reached down to push the emergency button, which would alert his soldiers to the fact that he was in danger. Methos reached down with his other hand and twisted Ballard’s fingers until they made a sickening crunching sound. Ballard tried to cry out, but Methos was cutting off his air supply. Several soldiers rushed into the room.

“We found three bodies-“ one of them began before he noticed the situation. They all levelled their guns at him. They fired several shots and Methos stumbled a bit before turning to glare at them. He dropped Ballard, who fell to the ground coughing and trying to catch his breath, which was coming in ragged gasps. He cradled his hand protectively to his chest.

Methos lunged at the soldiers, who continued to fire their weapons. He managed to take one down, render another unconscious and break a third’s arm and dislocate his shoulder before he sustained too many injuries for adrenaline to numb and for his Quickening to heal immediately. 

...

Methos revived with a gasp and opened his eyes to see Ballard standing over him. He struggled for a moment against the chains that bound him to the bed, but quickly stopped, to conserve energy he would undoubtedly need in the future. He wore fresh pants and frowned at the idea of people handling him when he was dead. Death was the only time he was truly vulnerable. At any other time, he had a vast assortment of weapons at hand, words included.

“I saw the recording of what you did to my men,” Ballard told him. He look... proud, Methos finally decided. Pride mixed curiously with a faint hint of distaste. Ballard wanted to use his darker side, but he was not particularly enamoured with it. “Simply amazing,” Ballard said. “You’re a force of nature. You’re perfect for what I have planned.” 

Methos narrowed his eyes, wondering just what Ballard meant by that. 

“I take you’ve got something specific in mind,” Methos said.

“I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of tracking you down if I didn’t,” Ballard told him. “There’s something I want you to see,” Ballard continued, smiling in anticipation.

Methos was unchained at gunpoint. The gun was aimed at his head so that the first shot was likely to be fatal. They then roughly pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him. He did not even attempt to struggle, he knew when it was worth it, and now was not it. He smirked maliciously when he saw the bruises on Ballard’s neck and the splint on his fingers. The soldier with the broken arm was nowhere in sight. 

Methos was marched through several passages, some that he recognised, which still held the smell of disinfectant from cleaning the blood that he had spilt along the way. His smirk grew. Several of the soldiers were eyeing him warily, and even more bore malevolent glares. This time, however, there was no Stryker to leave him at their mercy when he was not of use. Methos highly doubted that Ballard would let his precious Immortal come to too much harm. Now he just had to find out what the mortal had planned.

Finally, Ballard came to a blank door that he pushed open. Inside the walls were covered in papers; Stryker’s salvaged research, Ballard’s own research, and far too much information on Methos for him to be comfortable. Adam Pierson quivered inside. 

“And what is this project?” he asked archly. He drew himself up to his full height and sneered Ben Adams’ indolent sneer in an attempt to intimidate Ballard. Even in handcuffs he was still dangerous. Ballard appeared completely oblivious.

“All in good time, my boy,” Ballard said condescendingly as he patted Methos’ shoulder. Methos glared at the General, annoyed that he was not privy to plans of which he was such an essential part. He’d never been particularly fond of people trying to control his life.

“Of course,” Adam Pierson replied, with as much deference as he could muster. He needed Ballard on his side if he wanted to get out of this. Methos had the feeling that Ballard could only be pushed so far, and he had already tried to kill the man, as well as broken several of his fingers. Ballard had been indulgent up until this point, though Methos was not sure just how long that would last. But he was the man’s pet Immortal, he thought disdainfully, and that should afford him a certain amount of leverage. Regardless of how insane Ballard was, Methos would not try to kill him any time soon, at least not until he was free. It was just a pity that Ballard happened to be one of the intelligent psychopaths, but he could work around that.

“Stryker was an idiot,” Ben Adams said, turning to look at Ballard straight in the eye. Ballard looked surprised.

“Why do you say that?” Ballard asked.

“I was Death,” he said, smile slow and sure. “There’s very little I don’t know about tactics and strategy. My mind is my greatest weapon. All Stryker could think to use me for was a shield.”

“Together we’re going to do great things,” Ballard told him, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Ballard escorted him out of the room and then returned to his office, leaving Methos in the care of the soldiers. He decided that Ballard had undoubtedly gone off to think up even more dastardly plans. 

He was led back into his cell, which now had a latrine and basin of water in it. It took a moment to memorise the code to his cell. A tray of food rested at the foot of the bed. At least when he had woken up in the basement of Xavier’s mansion he had been fully clothed and in a room that was not likely to drive him insane. His room, too, smelled of disinfectant and the blood that had sprayed on the walls and floor was gone. He was almost disappointed.

One of the soldiers released him from his handcuffs while another had a gun to his head then both backed out warily. Adam Pierson gave them a friendly smile that only made them leave more quickly. The door slid shut and Methos walked over to the bed. A pair of white pants and a white shirt lay on it. Methos wondered if Ballard thought he was still exactly the same as he had been three thousand years ago. Surely the man knew that no one could remain unchanged in that amount of time? Even Kronos had adapted to the times in his own way. After all, he had not planned to charge at him enemies from out of the sun but had instead created a virus. Kronos had adapted in his own way and had taken advantage of modern breakthroughs instead of falling back on his old methods of intimidation and death.

Methos changed into the clothes left for him. Even the underwear had been white, which had amused him. It was, at least, better than the thin white pants he had been wearing before.

He picked up the tray of food and sat on the bed, the tray resting on his lap, and began to pick at his food. What he had to do now was take what he knew of the base, now that he was not in a homicidal rage, and match it to what he had researched while at Xavier’s mansion. Then he had to find a way out. He sighed, after this he was going to some hot tropical island, preferably some sort of holy ground, and hiding out for a few decades. He felt that he deserved a holiday by now. Methos was beginning to understand why Darius had lived his life on holy ground. He never could manage to live a life of denial for more than a few years though.

He knew that the majority of the base was underground. He had been able to determine that much from combining his research and what he had briefly seen out of Ballard’s window. He was pretty sure that he was still in America, which was some consolation, though not much. The underground layout matched only two of the bases he had found, but there was still the possibility that there was one he had not found. 

He assumed that the X-men were looking for him, they were, after all, self-confessed good guys and would not allow someone to be kidnapped from right under their noses. He allowed himself the hope that they might want to find him because he had his own intrinsic worth and not just because he would be dangerous in Ballard’s hands. 

Methos leaned back against the wall, facing the door and closed his eyes. Until he was able to learn more, all that was left to him was to rest and keep his strength up. The most important thing at the moment was to find out just what part Ballard wanted him to play in his plan and what that meant for Immortals and mutants.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter to make up for me neglecting this fic for so long.

Scott drifted lazily between sleeping and waking. He could hear voices but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to decipher them. He sighed and shifted more comfortably under the blanket, before pain spiked through his shoulder. The bed was not one with which he was entirely familiar but he recognised the timbre of the voices so he brushed that thought languidly aside.

“Scott,” he heard a quiet, accented voice call. He grumbled softly before curling further into himself. “Scott,” the voice continued, becoming more insistent. Scott sighed in annoyance and, with great effort, felt his face for his visor before prying his eyes open. After several destroyed rooms, such a check had become instinctual. He found himself staring into large orange eyes set in a blue face. He squinted for a moment at the sudden brightness then blinked several times, trying to focus.

“Kurt.” The X-man known as Nightcrawler smiled brightly at him. Scott frowned and pulled himself into a sitting position. He winced at the pain slicing through his shoulder and heavy feeling in his limbs..

“You are experiencing the after-effects of anaesthetic. It should wear off steadily,” Xavier told him.

“What happened?” he questioned, rubbing his temples to ease his headache. Xavier gave him a concerned look but Scott shook his head, indicating that the older man should not worry. Scott noticed that Ororo and Logan stood at his other side. Ororo’s stance was slightly aloof, though her expression betrayed her relief at seeing him awake. 

“Was wondering if you were planning to sleep in all day,” Logan commented, smirking. Scott shot him a glare before turning back to Xavier, ignoring the comment.

“Adam. Is he all right?” Scott asked his mentor. His memories were fuzzy at best. He was surprised to hear Logan’s soft growl. He glanced once more at the other man and saw the determined set of his jaw and the hard glint in his eyes. He had previously only seen that expression when Marie and, more recently, the other children had been in danger. 

“They kidnapped Adam,” Xavier said solemnly. Kurt bowed his head and his shoulders slumped. His long tail came to wrap firmly around himself and he folded his arms defensively. Ororo’s expression was grave, promising retribution. Her arms were crossed firmly across her chest in an effort to restrain her emotions and her eyes glittered challengingly. Xavier’s words had elicited another growl from Logan. Logan’s hands curled into hard fists and his muscles bulged with tension. It seemed that he was only moments away from unsheathing his claws and doing untold damage to some unfortunate piece of furniture.

Scott could not bring himself to even so much as pity Ballard and his men. His own feelings mirrored the rest of his team’s too closely. Ballard would not get away with kidnapping one of their own. If only because it meant all mutants would be vulnerable if they allowed one to be. 

“How? I don’t really remember much,” Scott admitted, rubbing his forehead as he strained to remember what had happened on the field trip. He remembered walking through the various parts of the museum, a little bored because he had seen most of the exhibits several times already and absently listening to Adam’s off the wall commentary.

“You and Adam fell behind the rest of the group and it appears that Ballard used that opportunity. They shot you first and then set off the alarm.” 

Scott nodded, the rest of his memories falling into place; his frustration with Adam’s teasing, the shock of pain at his shoulder, before he finally passed out. 

“They shot Adam and managed to escape with him while Ororo and Logan were focused on the children,” Xavier added.

“They shot him?” Scott asked, suddenly feeling at least a little guilty about the stunt he pulled with the Danger Room. In the beginning, he had hated Adam with a fury that had clouded all rational thought. He had blamed him for Jean because he was an easy target. Adam had been there during the whole fiasco and he had been working for Stryker. The fact that he had not been fully in control at the time had not factored. Things had changed, if only a little, when he had seen Adam fighting to protect the children that Scott considered his responsibility. 

Slowly, Scott placed first one foot then the other on the floor. He levered himself up, standing somewhat shakily before Kurt rushed to his side, lending him an arm to lean on. 

“Scott, you need your rest,” Ororo insisted. Scott firmly shook his head.

“We need to find out where Adam is and get him the hell out of there.” He noticed the faint shudder that ran through Kurt’s frame and frowned worriedly.

“We cannot leave him there long,” Kurt said adamantly. Scott knew there was more to Kurt’s reaction than he understood but he simply nodded.

“They ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em,” Logan snarled. Scott found himself grinning. It was not a pleasant smile. The Wolverine matched his grin with a feral smile. They nodded to each other, an understanding passing between them. When they were through there would be nothing recognisable left of Ballard and his men.

“We need to plan our strategy,” Scott told the others. Xavier sighed and looked for a moment very weary, before recovering himself.

“You should get your rest and recover properly. There is nothing to be done for the moment that cannot be done by the others.” Scott looked about to protest but Xavier gave him a firm look.

“You will be more useful to us and to Adam if you are fully rested,” Ororo agreed. Scott stared at Xavier intently for a moment, weighing up his usefulness at the moment as opposed to getting some more rest before he nodded tightly.

“A few more hours,” he conceded, climbing back into the bed slowly, though whether from reluctance or residual sluggishness the others could not tell. 

“I will try to search once more for him using Cerebro. Storm and Iceman can go over his previous research,” Xavier informed him. Scott nodded and sank back into the pillows. He realised just how exhausted he still felt. Though it made him feel inordinately guilty, he was grateful that they had forced him to rest some more.

“Get your beauty sleep, bub,” Logan told him, then after a pause added, “trust me, you need it.” Scott snorted, but closed his eyes as they all left the room. Ororo paused in the doorway.

“We won’t lose another,” she vowed, before sweeping out of the room without looking back. With that assurance Scott allowed himself to sleep.

...

Ballard stood, his back straight and stance rigid, as he stared out of his office window. One hand was folded in the other behind his back. He contemplated his current situation as he watched the gradually fading sunset. Without artificial lighting, the office around him slowly receded into shadows. He remembered clearly how upset he had been when he had heard of the death of his old friend, William Stryker. They had met at boot camp and had been firm friends since. They had fought wars together, had struggled together and laughed together. He had been William’s best man and had stood at his side through his wife’s death. 

He knew what had happened to his friend’s son and he knew how it had changed the man. He understood what it was that his friend was trying to achieve. It was regrettable, but necessary. They could not afford the world overrun by mutants. There would only be anarchy.

William had told him that there were mutants of unimaginable power. There were mutants that could control your mind, that could be anyone, that could harness the very elements. A world where such creatures had free reign did not bear imagining. The thought left him cold. 

Upon hearing of his friend’s death, he knew that he had to continue William’s work. He had to do everything he could to eliminate the risk that mutants posed. It was what his friend had wanted, what he knew had to be done. The mutants had killed William. The X-men had killed him. Now, he would obliterate them all, any way he possibly could. 

So, he had taken what he could recover of William’s research and developed his own plans. He knew that he had to have an edge, something the X-men did not, and so he had found Ballard’s research. William had looked extensively into his pet mutant’s history, had questioned him under the serum and made him forget. Where William hadn’t been willing to use mutants as more than fodder, Ballard was far more willing to exploit them for his own purposes.

From Stryker’s research, Ballard had learned about Immortality and the Game. A bizarre ritual that he found distasteful, but useful none-the-less. With the Game he learnt of the Prize and that had suited his fledgling plans perfectly. 

It was only when he’d learned the true identity of Ballard’s pet Immortal that his plan had fully taken shape. He had felt a thrill, though of excitement or fear he had not been able to tell. And ultimately it had not mattered. Such a man would surely be only too eager to join his side, to revel in death, as was his purpose. And now, Ballard had Death in his hands.

It was seldom that William overlooked the abilities of his soldiers, but his hatred of mutants had always blinded him. Ballard had also been bitterly disappointed to learn that Death was masquerading as a doctor for Xavier and that he was unwilling to join him. He had managed to remedy that, however, with a bit of persistence.

Now, everything was falling into place. His plan was already in motion and nothing that the X-men could do would stop it and if the Immortal did not agree to his deal then there was always the serum. There was enough left for what he intended and the seer had assured his success.

He could celebrate his victory later. For now, he had to deal with Death.

...

Methos sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting heavily on his legs, staring blankly at the floor. The blindingly white tile floor. Surrounded by four blindingly white walls. Topped even by a blindingly white ceiling. His entirely world was white. The colour, or lack thereof, was really starting to get on his nerves. He would bet that Kronos would get a kick out of that. Death, who had once donned white and ridden a pale horse, now detested the colour. He slowly raised his gaze to the camera and glared, his expression dark. 

From the frequency of his meals, Methos guessed that it had been several days since he had last spoken to Ballard. Meals were given to him by silent guards who made no move to speak with him and answered none of the questions posed to them. But he was not too worried. He knew just about every method of softening up or torturing a prisoner, either from using them himself or from having them used on him, occasionally both. Soon, Ballard would come and offer him some sort of deal. The only question in Methos’ mind now was to the nature of the deal.

Methos shook his head and walked over to the basin that had been placed in his cell and splashed some water on his face. He was a little tired, which was understandable considering that the only sleep he was getting was light so that he would wake at the slightest sound. He could not afford to let his guard down in this place. At least the latrine was replaced every now and that alone made for far better accommodations than some of the places he had stayed, even voluntarily. His first few hundred years, what he remembered at least, were not his brightest moments.

He began his daily exercise routine. Its purpose was twofold. It kept his physique in peak condition and it occupied some of the long hours he spent alone in the room. He had progressed through several katas when he heard the smooth swish of the door. He knew that it was not yet time for his meal, which meant undoubtedly that it was Ballard. 

He continued with his kata, keeping the other man waiting. He did not mind the enemy seeing him perform this particular kata as it did not show off his full skill. When Ballard cleared his throat for the second time he came to a standstill. He did not want the man angry after all, only a little annoyed. It would put him off balance and, hopefully, give Methos an edge.

“Ballard,” he greeted, his voice hoarse from lack of use. His expression, however, displayed only calm. Ballard smiled genially.

“Adam, or should I call you Death?” 

Ben Adams returned the smile in a similar manner and sat down on the end of the bed, projecting an image of nonchalance. He knew this would further annoy Ballard without him being blatantly uncooperative. For the moment, his co-operation was likely the only thing keeping him alive, or at least rational. 

“I’m sure you’ll call me whatever you feel like,” Methos said, keeping his expression politely indifferent. Many a supervisor and overzealous socialite had seen the exact expression over the years.

“I’ve come to offer you the chance of a life time,” Ballard informed him. “Even one as long as yours.” The air that he assumed indicated that Methos should feel honoured. He didn’t. 

“And what is this chance that you so nobly offer?” Ben Adams asked in a bored, vaguely mocking, tone.

“I could give you what you need to win the Game.” Methos raised an eyebrow. He was not interested in the Prize, as an Immortal that had never been his goal, but he was curious to hear just how Ballard meant to hand it to him. He remembered Ballard also mentioning something similar when he had confronted the general in his office. He wondered how his winning the Game factored into Ballard’s plans. 

“What makes you think I want the Prize?” He wondered at Ballard’s reasoning. He had never shown an inclination for the Prize in all his long years, after all. While the Horsemen had been about reigning in terror, it had never been about the Prize or the Game. If it had been they would likely have killed each other before the end of their first decade together. It would have been impossible to last anywhere near a thousand years together.

“Every Immortal wants the Prize. It’s your purpose,” Ballard informed him, as though this was the plainest thing in the world. Methos inclined his head. Clearly, Ballard took this to mean agreement as he smiled confidently. 

The true nature of the Prize, or even its very existence, was a mystery to Methos. But he was not about to enlighten Ballard. As long as Ballard needed him to win the Prize then he was reasonably safe. The only issue was why Ballard wanted him to win and what he ultimately intended be done with the Prize.

“What do you get out of it?” Methos queried his tone belying none of his suspicions. Ballard arched an eyebrow. Obviously, he had assumed that an Immortal when offered the Prize would not think about or be interested in the consequences of that offer. 

“Just a little favour,” Ballard said with a negligent wave of his hand. Methos resisted the urge to snort or roll his eyes. He made it a rule never to owe anyone favours, especially ‘little’ ones. They so rarely were.

“So once I’ve won the Prize and supposedly rule the world, what is it that you want? Wealth? Power? Perhaps Immortality yourself?” Ballard laughed lightly, genuinely amused.

“Nothing of the sort,” Ballard assured him. “While Immortality is intriguing it is not something I desire to suffer. As for wealth and power, well, I have enough to satisfy my needs. No, I want you to eradicate mutants.” 

Adam Pierson’s eyes widened and Ballard smiled condescendingly. Death felt a thrill at once more sowing fear and pain, of looking into someone’s eyes to see their dawning knowledge that he now controlled their destiny. Methos firmly quelled the rising desire, though it continued to fester at the periphery of his conscious mind. He was not as far removed from Death as he would have MacLeod believe. As he, himself, wanted to believe. The last few years had, if nothing else, afforded him the insight that while he could run from his past, he could not escape it. Death may have been his own personal demon, but it was also the part of himself that he called upon for survival.

“And if I don’t want any part of your plan?” Adam Pierson asked curiously. Ballard’s smile increased.

“There is enough of the serum left to solve that problem.” 

Methos suppressed a shudder and struggled to keep his expression indifferent. There was no way that he would freely give Ballard an advantage like that. He mentally shrugged. It would be in his best interests to go along with Ballard for the moment. It would take quite some time to end the Game, which gave him enough time to think of some way to extricate himself from the situation.

“Well, since you put it that way,” Ben Adams commented dryly. He stuck out his hand and Ballard shook it, a smirk alighting on his features. Methos was strongly reminded of his recent reunion with Kronos. He smirked in response, his eyes narrowing. “Death rides again.”


	9. Chapter 9

Methos lay sprawled on the bed, his arms flung out at his sides. He stared at the ceiling as he had numerous times before when sleep eluded him. He searched, as he had so many times, for cracks, stains or marks of any sort. He found none.

Since making the deal with Ballard, Methos had rested occasionally but never truly slept. Brief rests allowed him to remain alert without leaving him vulnerable. It also allowed him the benefit of not sleeping deeply enough to get nightmares. The stark reminders of his time with Stryker had brought everything to the surface. The nightmares would undoubtedly return as well.

Methos had estimated that it had been several days since he had last been visited and his patience was wearing thin. There was still too much that he did not know about Ballard’s plan for him to counter. Now that he had found out a little he wanted, needed, to find out more. He knew what Ballard planned to do but just exactly how he planned to do so and his true motivations were still unknown. Methos loathed not knowing what was going on.

He was sure that the X-men were looking for him, but he was uncertain as to how successful they would be. He was not sure if any of the X-men were skilled enough at hacking to find out anything more than he already had. He had found that they tended to rely on their powers and brute force rather than in-depth research. This had, however, worked remarkably well for them so far.

Had he been a mutant he was positive that Xavier would be able to track him, but he had the feeling that Xavier had trouble getting a lock, for lack of a better word, on his mind. It would not surprise him if his mind was as slippery as he was. It was something he took great pains and pride in being. He had spent millennia perfecting the art of being evasive, of letting nothing slip to anyone. You could never be sure who your enemies were and who was willing to betray you. He had also found over the years that he was immune to the Voice, which, while not telepathy, was also an invasive mental talent. While he had appreciated this ability many times in the past, he was unsure how to stop being what and how he was so that Xavier could find him.

Methos wondered briefly what MacLeod was doing. It had been years since he had been to see MacLeod and of course the other man had no reliable way of tracking him. Young Immortal Adam Pierson may have warranted a Watcher, but only a novice. Methos had little trouble losing even veteran Watchers, the novices were only a minor nuisance.

He knew that MacLeod still owned the dojo, a rather foolish undertaking, but the Highlander did tend to get terribly attached to things. The only material things Methos had any emotional attachment to were his sword and his journals. He found it much easier to move on that way. It was the people he invariably became attached to that he found troublesome.

Joe had been the most recent example. He had been extremely reluctant to leave his Adam Pierson identity behind, especially when it meant that he would have been unable to see the old mortal again. He had even exposed himself to the Watchers as an Immortal, albeit a new one, in order to keep contact with his friend. He wondered what Joe had thought of his lack of contact again, if Joe thought he’d disappeared because he couldn’t hack it, or if he thought he’d been taken again. There wasn’t much Joe could do, either way.

...

Scott had been out of bed for several days now. The shot itself hadn’t done too much damage and they had eventually let him leave the infirmary. Hank had only come back briefly, to operate on Scott and make sure there weren’t any complications before he’d had to leave again. Things were heating up in Washington and as much as Hank had wanted to stick around and help them, he was more useful exploiting his sources in Washington. Scott wondered briefly if perhaps the position of doctor was cursed. First Jean, who had assumed the role of doctor, had sacrificed herself, and then her replacement had been kidnapped.

He knocked curtly on the door to Xavier’s office, waiting for a reply before entering. Ororo, Bobby and Kurt all looked up when he entered. Their expressions were equally grave and he sighed dispiritedly.

“How are you doing, Scott?” Xavier asked from behind his desk.

“Fine,” he replied tersely. He took the last seat and looked expectantly at the others.

“Ororo, what have you been able uncover?” Xavier asked. The other three mutants had been going through Adam’s research, trying to see if he had uncovered anything that could lead them to him.

“His research is remarkably thorough,” Ororo began. She hesitated uncharacteristically and Scott frowned.

“But?”

“It is thorough but also rather unhelpful.”

“Adam researched a number of bases and we’re not entirely sure at which one he ended up,” Bobby told Scott. “There are several that he seemed to think were more likely than others to be Ballard’s base of operations, but we can’t narrow them down beyond that.”

“So you have nothing?”

Bobby sighed and shook his head.

“I have also been unable to pinpoint his location,” Xavier informed them. When Xavier had first encountered John White, he had been surprised for the first time in a very long time. White intrigued him, much as Jean had, but in an entirely different way.

Xavier had been unable to sense Adam’s mind unless he actively sought him. In some ways, it was even more frustrating than trying to get around Eric’s helmet, because he should have been able to read Adam. That was not even the most unusual aspect though. What truly surprised Xavier was the fact that even when he did manage to reach Adam’s mind he found what he could only describe as static. Occasionally, he would be able to read a surface thought, an intent, or a particularly strong emotion, but little beyond that. Usually it was only telepaths that could block other telepaths, but Adam seemed to have amazing natural shields.

“His mind is a curious thing and his thoughts remarkably slippery. I won’t be able to find him unless he lets down his shields, but I do not think he will do so.”

Scott frowned.

“Surely he would, if only so that we could find him. He must know that he would need to for us to find him,” Scott argued. Xavier shook his head.

“You misunderstand me. It’s not a matter of him wanting to, I don’t think it’s possible for him to. I’m not even sure if he’s aware of his shields.”

“Then there is no way for us to find him?” Kurt asked. He looked at each of the X-men members, hoping that they would disagree.

“Not unless Scott has found something of worth,” Xavier said, his voice measured but hopeful. They had not needed another person to help go through the research, which left Scott with nothing much to do and he hated feeling useless. He had taken to monitoring the news from all over the country for any developments that might refer to Ballard, Adam, or what Ballard was planning. Scott shook his head sharply.

“Nothing.” His tone betrayed his frustration. He sprang impatiently from the chair all of a sudden and began pacing. “There’s nothing but the usual news.”

“We will find something soon,” Xavier assured him. Scott sighed, knowing it to be a false assurance, but even so, he appreciated it.

“We had better,” Scott said, leaving the ‘or it might be too late’ unspoken. It was unnecessary, as everyone picked up on it none-the-less.

...

The door to Methos’ cell slid open and he glanced to the side to see Ballard, accompanied by only one soldier this time. Obviously, now that they had come to a sort of agreement, Ballard felt that he was safer. Methos pulled himself into a sitting position. All of his previous lethargy vanished completely.

“We’re just about ready to begin the process,” Ballard informed him happily. Ben Adams’s eyes narrowed. This was the first time that he had heard of having to undergo any process. Well, it was the first time he had heard much of anything really. His mind ran over several ‘processes’ that he thought Ballard could be referring to. None of them were particularly pleasant.

“What process?”

“To get you ready for the Game. To make you invincible,” Ballard said, excitement etched in his every jittery movement. Methos realised that this was his opportunity to learn the rest of Ballard’s plan. He had a feeling he would not like what he discovered, however.

“Just how do you plan to do that?” Methos looked at Ballard warily, a feeling of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. He resisted the urge to reach for his sword, which he knew would not be there. Ballard frowned slightly.

“You want to win the Prize don’t you?” Ballard asked. Methos hesitantly nodded his head, keeping to his original story. “Then you should be willing to do anything to get it.”

“That’s beside the point.” Even if he had been willing to do anything to get the Prize, he felt that he had a right to know just what Ballard planned to do to him. It was his body, after all. Ballard’s frown deepened significantly.

“William passed on a secret of his before his untimely demise. I have to admit I did not appreciate its full potential until I heard about you,” Ballard told him. Methos thought over the few secrets of Stryker’s that he had been privy to. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to fit the scenario.

“What secret was this?” Before Ballard could continue his explanation, if indeed he had been about to, another soldier entered the room and crisply saluted the general.

“The adamantium is ready, sir,” the soldier told him. Methos stared at Ballard incredulously.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re insane. There’s no way that my Quickening will accept adamantium enhancements,” he objected. Ballard waved off his protestations with a dismissive gesture. Death rankled at being so easily dismissed, especially by this man. He had ruled continents. He would not be disregarded like a petulant child.

“It will. I’m certain of it,” Ballard stated confidently. Ben Adams gave a disdainful snort.

“Well that makes everything alright then,” Methos said, his tone mocking. His expression was glacial and his eyes glinted darkly.

“Greatness always requires a sacrifice and this is yours.” Ballard looked contemplative for a moment. “It could be worse actually. If anything, an adamantium skeleton is a gift.”

Methos snarled and lunged at Ballard, his anger and hatred for the man coming to the fore. He could not believe the man’s impudence. The soldier grabbed him before he could reach the general.

“Deal with him,” Ballard told the soldier, who held Methos’ arms firmly. “I want the process started as quickly as possible.”

“Yes sir,” the soldier said, though his voice wavered ever so slightly. Death smiled pitilessly. The man reached to handcuff him but Methos spun quickly, slamming the heel of his hand into the man’s nose. The soldier collapsed to the ground. It seemed that the quality of men was steadily decreasing. Ballard made a disappointed noise and shook his head. Methos turned to see that Ballard had a gun aimed at the centre of his chest.

Ballard stared directly into Methos’ hazel eyes, his own eyes alight with amusement and delight. Amusement at the futility of the Immortal’s struggles, but delight at the continued resistance. He knew from the first moment that he had seen Death fight that he was the perfect one for his plans. He admired the man’s ferocity, if nothing else. He could not expect anything different from a man born before the rules of civilised combat and, indeed, he did not want any other man.

He knew that this man had been, and was still, Death, but he was also just a man. Ballard was confident that he could control the other at least until he had achieved his aims. His friend, William Stryker, had shown that the man could be controlled even though he had not known what he was controlling. Ballard was also sure that Death wanted what he had to offer, such a man always longed for what he had lost. For the moment, this man was at his mercy, and that meant that he had the advantage.

“I will kill you,” Death snarled a promise, his eyes smouldering with hatred. Ballard chuckled.

“No, I rather think you’ll thank me,” Ballard replied as he calmly shot Methos.

...

MacLeod lifted the grate of the loft elevator and stepped into the apartment. He had been out of town for the last three months on business. Returning to the loft always felt like coming home, something he knew to be dangerous. He would have to sell it in a few years, at the most, but he was reluctant to part with it.

He had half-expected to feel Methos’ presence on the way up. To see the irascible Immortal sprawled out on his couch, beer in one hand, book or remote in the other and his feet up on the coffee table. Just because he knew it would annoy MacLeod. But he had sensed no Immortal.

It had disappointed him to realise that it had been several years since he had last heard from Methos. MacLeod had briefly seen Methos at Joe’s a few years ago, but the older Immortal had made himself scarce since then. He had been surprised to realise just how much he missed the infernal Old Man.

“’I don’t know who or what you are’,” he muttered to himself. “Good going with that one MacLeod.”

It had been some time after Methos had disappeared before he realised just how that must have sounded to the Old Man. He had meant that Methos was a man so full of complexities that MacLeod would never be able to fathom him. In fact, the longer he knew the man, the less he understood him and his motivations. He had not meant to be disrespectful or insulting. As usual, it had not come out as he had intended. Methos had risked his neck for his friends, and MacLeod had insulted him. Again.

MacLeod sighed as he walked further into the loft. He threw his keys onto the kitchen counter and absently went to check his messages. He eased out of his coat as the first message began to play and with a weary sigh he hung it on a rack by the door. The absence of the weight of his blade left him feeling vulnerable, as always. The first message was from the bank regarding one of his accounts. He paid only cursory attention until the machine switched to the second message and he heard a familiar voice. It lacked the British accent, but it was unmistakeable none-the-less. It took him a moment to realise that the British accent had to be a relatively recent acquisition, what with Methos being born long before modern day Britain even existed.

“ _MacLeod. I know it’s been a while, though I’m sure you’ve had your share of damsels to fill your time_.” There was a brief pause as though Methos was measuring what to say. “ _Just… be on the lookout, and not only for Immortals_.”

The machine switched to the next message and MacLeod frowned worriedly. Methos had sounded concerned and he was clearly in some sort of danger. The last time Methos had sounded that troubled the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had ridden again. And Methos had not even bothered to call to warn him about that one. Not that he had had much opportunity. MacLeod was jolted from his thoughts at the sound of another familiar voice.

“ _Hey, Mac, I think something’s happened to Adam. He contacted me a few weeks ago and it sounded like something bad had happened, but he wouldn’t tell me what, now he’s dropped out of contact again_ ,” Joe told him. MacLeod frowned again.

MacLeod wondered what Methos had gotten himself into this time. If the Old Man was worried about something then it was definitely something worth worrying about. He wondered in what way the world was going to end this time.

MacLeod’s mind turned to events earlier in the year when quite suddenly everyone had been afflicted with the same debilitating pain. He had been in Paris at the time and authorities had passed it off as mass carbon monoxide poisoning. MacLeod had heard whispers of mutants, however, and that did concern him. He found the idea of mutants that powerful distressing and he could understand why many governments wanted mutant registration. He did not necessarily agree, he had lived through World War 2 after all, but he could understand where they were coming from. He knew that the mutants that posed a threat to humanity needed to be policed, but there were even more that probably just wanted to live a normal life, like many Immortals. It did not bear consideration if Methos was involved with the mutant that had almost killed the entire population.

MacLeod pulled the dust cover off the couch and sat down. He pulled out his cell phone and rang Amy Thomas’s number. She’d taken over most of Joe’s Watcher work the last few years when it became increasingly difficult for Joe to keep up with it. It was also a chance for her to get to know her father better.

MacLeod had, once more, broken Watcher rules and gotten to know her. It seemed that they had ceased to care about, or at least given up trying to change, his involvement with the Watchers. After all, he had been friends with his previous Watcher and with a Watcher turned Immortal, as they believed Methos to be.

It had been quite a shock to many of the Watchers to find that Adam Pierson, a quiet and largely overlooked researcher, had turned out to be Immortal. It had shocked them even more when he had survived his first few years. Most incompetent Immortals were quickly weeded out. Of course, the Watchers put his survival down to the magnanimous protection of Duncan MacLeod. They seemed to forget that Richie had been targeted simply for being his student.

The phone rang several times before it was picked up.

“ _Hello. How can I help you?_ ” Amy said, without identifying herself. It was always better to wait for one’s caller to identify themselves first.

“Amy, it’s Duncan. How have you been?”

“ _You want something, don’t you?_ ” she asked, her tone exasperated. It surprised MacLeod sometimes just how much like her father she could be. He smiled.

“What makes you think I want something?” Not for the first time MacLeod wished he was as practiced at playing innocent as Methos.

“ _Out with it, MacLeod_.”

“I just want some information, nothing big.”

“ _I can’t help you Hunt another Immortal, you know that._ ”

“I’m looking for Adam, I think he’s in trouble.”

Amy knew that Methos was older than the fifty his Adam Pierson Watcher’s Chronicle claimed, even if she did not know precisely who he was. She had encountered him when his past, in the form of an Immortal named Walker, had caught up with him. Walker had brought to light Methos’ previous identity of Benjamin Adams, a doctor in the early 19th century. She had yet to tell the Watchers, though she kept threatening to. She refrained from revealing the information half because of her father, who had kept the Immortal’s secret, and would likely be put before a Tribunal again if they found out. The fact that Methos had saved her life had not hurt either.

“ _I’ll see what I can find_ ,” Amy said, her tone resigned. MacLeod heard the clicking of keys for several moments. “ _It seems that Adam disappeared for about a year but showed up several months ago in New York. He disappeared again a few weeks ago from outside a museum. He was in the company of a group that the Watchers thought be mutants_.”

“Dammit,” MacLeod muttered. “I just knew it.”

“ _He was shot and killed before being abducted by what looked like a trained military team,_ ” Amy told him. MacLeod cursed softly. It was typical of Methos to get involved in something like this. For someone who preached so often about survival, he seemed to have an astonishing penchant for finding his way into the middle of events that were undoubtedly dangerous, if not life-threatening.

“I’m going to New York,” Duncan informed her. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“ _Just that the Watchers thought he might have been staying at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters_.” She gave him the address then said her goodbyes after wishing him luck. MacLeod then dialled the number for the airport, deciding that it was a good thing he was still packed, and booked the first flight to New York.


	10. Chapter 10

Methos revived with a painful gasp as air flooded his oxygen-starved lungs only to become aware of an even greater agony.

_Burning. Burning alive. Burning from the inside out. Had to remember where he was. What was going on. Couldn’t forget. His life depended on it. His sanity depended on it. And insanity was not an option. Not again._

He wondered if they had decided he was a devil worshipper again and that burning him was the only way to purify his soul. Reviving in front of people could be troublesome. But even being burnt alive was not as bad as this.

_Adamantium was indestructible. It had to be molten. Lava was molten. But it wasn’t indestructible._

The thought was driven out of his mind as a wave of agony washed over him and darkness overcame him once more.

Methos’ first breath came in a choked pant and for a long moment he was aware of nothing but the pain that wracked his body. It burned through his veins. It dug like knives into his flesh. It consumed him.

_Ballard. Ballard was ally. Ballard was enemy. Ballard would die. Death would come to Ballard. Death came to everyone. But not quickly. Not for Ballard. And he would enjoy it. Methos or Death? Didn’t matter. There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile... Ballard would suffer_

Methos was not sure how long he had been buoyed by pain. Time blurred the continuous dying and reviving into one agony filled nightmare that seemed to have no end.

_Screaming. Always screaming. Screaming in his ears. Screaming in his head. Sometimes... sometimes it stopped. Not now. Sometimes he drowned out everyone else… with his own screams. Death liked screams. Not his own. But he wasn’t Death. Was he? Screaming. Always screaming. Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP! Was that him?_

Whatever discomfort he would have felt in his throat was overlaid by the searing agony that coursed along his nerves. He screamed. It was quite some time before his thoughts resembled anything like coherence once more.

_How long? Hours? Weeks? Years? Centuries? Time had no meaning. Not in this place. This hell. Pain. He could count on the pain. Pain was constant. He had learnt that. The hard way. When? A long time ago. Not sure. Doesn’t matter. Wasn’t like this. Never like this. Never this bad._

Pain overwhelmed him once more and he allowed it to drag him down to darkness. His next revival was as painful and panicked as the previous ones.

_Where? When? Don’t know. Have to know. Life or death. Don’t know. Don’t know! Breathe. Next question. Who? Methos. Yes. Need more. Can’t remember. Have to remember. Important. Why? Don’t know. Can’t remember. Who? Who!? Just there. Can almost remember. Exhausted. Drained. Too much effort. Pain. Can’t concentrate. Doesn’t matter. Deserved this. Committed terrible deeds. Him. Not him. Done unspeakable things. What? Can’t remember. Important. Yes. What? What had he done?_

Methos knew that whatever they were doing would make him stronger. They wanted him to be stronger. He remembered that. He remembered that he wanted Ballard to pay. He would rip out the man’s heart and show it to him still beating. Drawing the pain into him, Methos embraced it and let everything else wash away. He and pain were old friends. He laughed.

_Death_ laughed.

-

MacLeod watched the carousel for his luggage. He had taken the earliest flight possible to get to New York. That had meant flying economy, but that was only a minor inconvenience. He had managed to reach New York before Amy, so he could get a start on finding out what was happening without her being in any danger. Which he was sure there would be. Methos had never called to warn him before.

He grabbed his luggage and manoeuvred his way out of the airport, ignoring all the tearful greetings and departures. Eventually he managed to hail a cab and had it take him to school address that Amy had given him. It was not long before he reached a reasonably upscale neighbourhood. Much better than anything ‘Adam Pierson’ had ever been able to afford. MacLeod was sure that Methos had a lot more money than he ever let on. He had been able to drop everything and take Alexa on a trip around the world, after all, and that required a considerable amount of money. Not only that but he had paid Alexa’s medical bills when her health began to fail significantly. MacLeod had, after some thought, come to the conclusion that Methos was uncomfortable with wealth. He speculated that Methos had been without it for at least half of his life. Either that or wealth made him stand out, something the Old Man was adamantly against.

He stepped out of the cab and looked up at the intimidating gates and ivy-covered walls. Subtle, but clearly still there, were a number of security and surveillance measures. MacLeod hesitated, deciding that he needed to know more about this place before he went marching in.

It belatedly occurred to him that he really should have called, just in case the Old Man had returned without the Watchers being aware. He doubted that the rookies usually assigned to Methos would have given him much of a challenge had he decided to avoid them. There was no answer.

It also occurred to him that he did not know Methos’ most current identity. Somehow, he had assumed that Methos would still be using his ‘Adam Pierson’ identity, even when he knew that not to be the case. He thought of the ancient Immortal first and foremost as Adam Pierson, which was probably why he had such problems reconciling his friend with the Horseman Death.

Reluctantly, he climbed back into the cab and headed for a hotel.

\--

He felt as though he was floating. Coherence slowly returned to him, but it was a battle that took all his remaining energy. Memories that had previously evaded him flooded his mind, before settling into place. Stryker, the X-men, New York. Ballard and the Prize. Adamantium.

Rage and hate flared within him, fuelled also by his fear. He firmly set aside the fear knowing it to be a weakness that was beneath him. Instead he focussed on the rage, allowing it to wash over him. The rage, much like the madness, was almost comforting in its familiarity.

He opened his eyes. He could make out indistinct figures through the murky water that surrounded him. He struggled, trying to reach the surface. He needed air.

His over-worked, exhausted Quickening took that moment to recover enough to try and heal him. His struggles ceased immediately as he curled up as much as possible, trying to ride out such pain as he had never felt before. Nothing in his vast experience had prepared him for this. It felt as though his body was trying to tear itself apart. He supposed it was, at that. His Quickening saw the Adamantium as a foreign body that needed to be expelled.

He drew in deep, panting breaths. For the first time he realised that he could actually breathe. His limbs fell slack, still shaking slightly. His Quickening had lost the little energy it had managed to replenish. It had been greatly overtaxed these last few weeks. He had been shot several times, and he had gone for almost two weeks with little sleep and only minimal food. His Quickening had also tried to sustain him through having Adamantium grafted to his skeleton. Now, it was trying to heal him by removing the Adamantium, which would of course be nearly impossible since it had hardened.

After the pain had faded, he became aware of a deep, lingering ache that spread through his entire body. He also noticed that the skin on his arms and legs felt taut, as though it was being pulled by tubes and needles. He was really beginning to hate needles. He tried to turn his head to look, but the movement was hampered. He assumed that it was his breathing apparatus. Pain flared again and Methos tried to, unsuccessfully, curl up once more. He made a concerted effort to dampen his Quickening and sighed in relief when the pain faded again. Never before had he been so grateful for learning how to manipulate his Quickening all those years ago.

He took a moment to gather his splintered concentration then used his skill to bend and force his Quickening to work around the adamantium, to accept it as part of him. He could not be sure of his success, never having tried something of that magnitude before. Previously, he had only used his ability to mask the strength of his Quickening.

Some time later, he wasn’t sure exactly how long, he was left trembling with exertion. He was also sure that had he not been suspended in liquid he would have been dripping in sweat. At least his Quickening was no longer trying to rip the Adamantium from his bones.

He knew, of course, that it was only a temporary solution, made easy by the fact that his Quickening was still recovering. It would get much more difficult as it grew in strength. He would need to destroy Ballard before it became too much of a problem. For now though, he needed to come up with a plan that would have amazed even his brother with its intricacy.

With a sigh, he finally allowed himself to drift off into a deep, exhausted sleep. He knew it was a risk because sleeping so deeply would leave him vulnerable, but at the moment it was one he was willing to take.

\--

Ballard watched as the Immortal’s eyes shot open. While the murky water made it difficult to make out the man’s exact expression, the weak struggles that followed betrayed his panic. Ballard found himself smiling. The other man was at his complete mercy for the time being, and he would have enough influence to see his plans through.

The Immortal eventually fell limp and, after getting a nod from one of the doctors, he indicated for several of the soldiers to pull the pliant body from the tank. The man sagged in the soldiers’ arms, and the various small marks from the needles were taking longer to heal than anticipated. He decided that it was not yet worthy of his concern. If the problem did not sort itself out in a day or two, then it might be necessary for him to intervene.

The man was dropped awkwardly onto a hospital bed. His arms and legs were immediately strapped down, despite his incapacitated state. Ballard walked over and looked down at the drawn face of the man who would realise all of his plans. He brushed a stray piece of hair out of the man’s face. So much power in such an apparently fragile frame. Ballard’s expression twisted into a delighted smile. The man and the power were his to command. His very own Immortal.

-

He was unsure as to when exactly he had been returned to his cell, but he had regained consciousness some hours earlier. Suddenly the stark white room had not seemed so bad. Of course, the fact that he had woken only to discover that he was firmly strapped down was most displeasing. There was also still a lingering ache from the process of grafting Adamantium to his skeleton that never quite left him, but so far his manipulations were holding for the most part. As his Quickening recovered more fully, he had had to divert more and more of his energy to suppressing and redirecting it.

Much like his Quickening, his hatred of Ballard had been growing steadily. Ballard would die. He did not care how, he knew only that he would not rest until the General was dead.

Ballard was well into his plan now. He had his weapon and he had the means to use it. The oldest Immortal was both anxious and reluctant to find out what Ballard planned next. The next step would require Ballard finishing the Game, which meant that he would have to initiate the Gathering. Assuming, of course, Ballard had any real understanding of just how many Immortals there were and what it would take for him to be the last.

When he had first learned of the Game, this was certainly not how he had imagined it ending. He and his brothers had intended to destroy all those who opposed them and take up the mantle of rulers for themselves. Of course, that would never happen now. He had spent too many years playing the role of upstanding, but insignificant, citizen that he had fallen for his own lies. Thus, he had been seduced by the belief that someone like that inept Boyscout could be the One.

He had even orchestrated his brothers’ downfall. The thought made him sick. It was one thing to abandon them when they no longer proved useful. It was quite another to destroy them altogether because of some misguided sentiment.

Despite all of this, he still did not want to be the one who won the Prize. If he won, it would mean that he had no opposition, which would be fortunate. It would also mean, however, that the only beings to which he could relate were the fool mortals he planned to subjugate. There was absolutely no fun in that. There was no challenge in confronting those ultimately weaker than you. Hence, he would have to find some way to stop Ballard before he found out enough to somehow initiate the Gathering.

The door to his cell slid open and his stomach clenched in anticipation. Ballard entered, wearing his superior smirk. The general came unaccompanied. He turned his head, the only movement he could really make, to look at Ballard.

“I see that you have recovered quite well,” Ballard said. He could hear the smug ‘I told you so’ lingering beneath the words. He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile.

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Now we can move on to the next phase of the plan,” Ballard told him. “I have an Immortal for you.”

“You except me to take them on one by one?” He glared as Ballard smiled condescendingly. The mortal’s smiles were really beginning to annoy him.

“Initially, yes. From what I understand the stronger you are, the more Immortals will be drawn to seek you out. Once the Gathering has begun most of them will destroy each other, until eventually you are the last.” The oldest Immortal raised an eyebrow. That probably would have been true, had he not been able to control the strength of his Quickening.

“And if I am not strong enough to beat them?” he wondered, purely out of curiosity.

“That is where the Adamantium comes into play. They will be unable to kill you.”

Of course, that would only work if his Quickening did not divest him of the Adamantium first. But, it was clear that Ballard would hear no arguments. He firmly believed that his plan would succeed. The Horseman suppressed the smirk that threatened to emerge. If his long years had taught him anything, it was that the universe had a perverse sense of humour. Ballard would definitely get what was coming to him before the end.

For the moment, he had some contingency plans to come up with. Regardless of what the bungling Boyscout thought, his skills were fine-tuned and, despite Ballard, he was still in reasonably good condition. His only problem would be in handling the swift succession of Immortals, and their Quickenings, that Ballard would undoubtedly have for him. But he would survive, and he would excel, such was the only option. He might even win the Game. He might be the last of his kind. Ballard looked smug and the oldest Immortal focussed once more on the general.

“There are rules that must be followed,” he informed Ballard.

“But they can be circumscribed,” Ballard said.

He shrugged, keeping his silence until he know more. Ballard watched him for a moment, as though weighing him up, then smirked. He stepped forward and unbuckled the straps. The Horseman contented himself with simply glaring at the General. Killing Ballard at this point would do nothing except satisfy his anger. He would still be trapped in a largely underground base without the relevant access codes or weapons to escape.

He eased himself off the bed and stretched briefly to relieve muscles sore from inaction. Ballard watched him with an indulgent smile before leading the way out of the room. He followed after a long enough moment to indicate that he chose to accept such unspoken orders before falling into step beside Ballard. He refused to act like a diligent child that trailed obediently after its parent.

Outside another room was a soldier holding something with which he was entirely familiar. His sword. Despite himself he grinned. The soldier waited for Ballard’s nod before handing it to him. It was clear that it had recently been sharpened and polished. While he did not like the thought of his blade in someone else’s hands he was glad that it had been taken care of. He lovingly ran his hand across it before testing the sharpness of the blade.

Ballard punched in the code to the room and the door slid open. The oldest Immortal absently memorised the code as he practiced a few moves, getting a feel for his blade once again. It had been quite some time since he had actually used it. Ballard indicated for him to enter and he did so, his blood already pumping in anticipation of the coming Quickening.

He noticed the small camera in the corner before dismissing it entirely. Of course Ballard would want to watch. He turned then and saw a man, young in both appearance and true age. But then everyone was young to him. The boy’s hands were tied behind his back and remained on his knees, staring up at him with wide, scared eyes. He wondered why Ballard had chosen such measly pickings for his first challenge. Although, without the help of something akin to the Watchers network, Ballard would have to rely on the scant knowledge he had amassed. He hoped that the boy had been questioned about the location of other, stronger, Immortals first.

“We don’t have to fight. If we work together we might be able to get out of here,” the boy suggested softly.

“Is that so?” he asked as he stalked forward. He needed no allies and the boy annoyed him. The boy was unskilled, entirely without fortitude and it was doubtful that he would have lived for long anyway. He would be out of there soon enough, but there was no reason why he could not enjoy himself in the mean time.

“I don’t want to die,” the boy whispered.

Death smirked.

“You’ve chosen the wrong company then,” he said as he brought his sword down in a smooth swipe.

The Quickening rose from the body and he had only enough time sense a thrill of apprehension run down his spine before it hit. The Quickening ran like fire through him, attacking the Adamantium with more resilience than he had thought possible. Slowly, the oldest Immortal felt his hard-won control over the Adamantium slipping. He exerted as much effort as he could muster in a futile attempt to reign in the Quickening that flooded through him.

His control shattered and he screamed hoarsely as the Quickening continued to strike him repeatedly, unerringly seeking out the Adamantium and trying to rid him of it. Memories that were not his own flooded through his mind and he had no choice but to accept them and the Quickening they came with.

As the power began to ebb he felt someone probe his mind. He collapsed to all fours, his breath coming in harsh gasps. _Adam_ , a voice called. He frowned, unable to focus on anything but the pain. The only coherent thought he managed was outrage that someone had dared to invade his mind. He brushed the intruder away, intending to deal with them later. Right now, he had other, more pressing, matters to draw his attention.

There was some noise outside, then the door slid open to reveal several soldiers. Two rushed in to position themselves on either side of the door. One still held a crowbar in his hands. The Horseman reined his Quickening in, forcing it to bend to his will once more. It had done some damage to the Adamantium, but had by no means rid him entirely of it. He climbed slowly to his feet, determined not to show any weakness. Ballard walked in, pleasure and irritation warring on his features.

“I could have told you that a Quickening indoors was a bad idea,” Death said, forcing a smirk. Ballard flashed him an annoyed look.

“You will not keep things from me in future.”

Death narrowed his eyes and shifted the sword in his hands slightly. The threat was clear. He was not in the mood to deal with this at the moment.

“You would do well to remember who I am,” he warned. Ballard’s annoyed look turned to anger.

“And _you_ would do well to remember that I still have the serum.” Ballard looked significantly at the soldiers who held weapons that appeared more like tranquiliser guns than real guns. Methos snarled, lowering his sword.

“This one was weak. I want better in the future,” he commanded even as he wondered how he would manage another Quickening. Ballard smiled once more, taking his sword from him.

“That can be arranged.”

Death nodded as he walked regally from the room. Now was not the time to act, much as he would have loved to. Soon, but not yet.

He managed to make it all the way to his cell before he threw up in the basin. He knelt for a long time, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his equilibrium. Finally, he managed to stumble over to bed, beside which was a glass of water. He rinsed his mouth of the lingering metallic taste before he collapsed on the bed, unconscious.


	11. Chapter 11

Xavier was on his way to dinner when he sensed the equivalent of a mental spike. That in itself was not unusual, he had been sensing them regularly since he had first come into his power, and so tended to ignore them, but there was a familiarity to this one. He extended his mind and found the recognizable mind of the man he’d once known as John White. Surprisingly, his mental shields were almost non-existent and Xavier slipped easily into his mind.

 

A rush of memories that he was sure did not belong to Adam flashed behind his eyelids. They went by too quickly for him to make too much sense of them. He wondered if perhaps he was in the wrong mind, but then, faintly, he felt what he identified as Adam’s mind. As the foreign memories slowed to a trickle then finally stopped, Adam’s mind became stronger and stronger.

 

_Adam_ , he called mentally. There was no recognition. He sensed a presence that was incredibly old, older even than Logan, and infinitely darker. Sensing that this was Adam, only more, banished all thoughts that this presence was somehow an intruder. He reached for the presence only to be forcibly shoved from Adam’s mind as his shields reasserted themselves. He was left with an impression of blood, warm on his skin as the desert sun, the stench of death and the dust of ages.

 

Xavier gasped in air. It had been some time since a venture into another’s mind had left him feeling like this. He saw Scott kneeling before him, looking worriedly up at him.

 

“Professor?”

 

Xavier shook his head.

 

“I’m fine. Just had a bit of a shock,” he said. Scott frowned.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I found Adam. He lowered his shields, though I think something happened that forced him to. I was able to pinpoint his location,” Xavier told him, then added apprehensively, “I’m worried about him.”

 

“Where is he?” Scott asked, his tone anxious.

 

“Eagle Lake, Maine.”

_\--_

MacLeod picked up the phone as it rang. He had been staying for the last few days in a hotel in New York, hoping to find something that he had missed. So far he had had no luck.

 

“MacLeod,” he answered.

 

“ _Duncan, I have some news_.”

 

“What is it, Amy?” MacLeod asked, hearing the obvious apprehension in her voice.

 

“ _I’m not sure how relevant it is. Either way, you might want to know it_.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“ _An Immortal was kidnapped two days ago. His Watcher reported that the men who kidnapped him appeared to be military. Just yesterday, there was an electrical surge at a nearby army base. MacLeod, I don’t need to tell you what it would mean if the army knew about Immortals_.”

 

“A world of trouble, I know. Do you think this is connected to Adam?”

 

“ _I can’t say. All I know is that it’s suspicious that they both disappeared, but it’s unlikely to be the same people. Especially given the length of time between occurrences, and the distances involved_.”

 

“Even if it isn’t him, I need to check it out. We can’t let the military find out about Immortals.”

 

“ _The base is in Maine, outside some town called Eagle Lake_ ,” Amy said, giving him the specifics.

 

“Let’s hope Adam can hold out a little longer,” MacLeod murmured with a sigh.

 

“ _Be careful_.” MacLeod just laughed deprecatingly as he hung up the phone. Now all he had to do was book another flight.

-

 

The oldest Immortal blinked, slowly coming back to himself. Memories flooded him as the alluring and alarming blankness of the serum left him. Over the last few days, he had absorbed three more Quickenings. Ballard _had_ questioned the boy about the locations of other Immortals. The young Immortal generally kept to himself, but he had known where his teacher and several of his teacher’s friends were. The first Immortal’s Quickening had been just as bad as the boy’s.

 

After spending several hours feeling miserable and being sick, he had been confronted with another Quickening. He had refused to co-operate. Ballard had, with a disgusting display of fake sympathy, told him that he would hate to have to resort to using the serum. The Horseman had fought the soldiers to the last.

 

The second Quickening had been a close call and Ballard had had to resort to medical intervention. His disappointment had only served to fuel Death’s fury at him. The third Quickening was, by far, the best. His recovery was much faster and the quantity of Adamantium in his body had decreased enough that it did not take his entire concentration to restrain his Quickening. It was an understatement to say that he was relieved.

While he was no longer completely invulnerable, he was a great deal sturdier than he had been before the process. He was reasonably confident that he could take more damage but he was not eager to put that theory to the test, despite what Ballard had in mind.

 

Each time after the serum had worn off, he had been shaken by how easy it was to strip away his prized control and Death had vowed to kill the insufferable mortal. He knew that the time was not yet right, but his patience had quickly worn thin.

 

If he had hated Ballard before, he despised him now. He would kill the mortal and destroy what was left of the serum. He could not afford to leave Ballard alive, the man knew far too much. More importantly, he did not want to let the General live. He chuckled darkly as he thought up various ways to kill Ballard, each more agonising than the last.

 

The door slid open once more and the oldest Immortal snarled. He was really getting sick and tired of dealing with this fool. His Quickening crackled under his skin and he glared at Ballard. Ballard looked surprised and Death simply smirked.

 

Previously, he had only become aggressive when he had been threatened, but he was no longer going to be reactive. He was the oldest. He was Death. He was not a pawn in anybody’s game.

 

“Come little mortal, step inside my lair,” Death taunted. He lashed out, but Ballard quickly stepped back and closed the door. Death laughed, the action had perhaps not been wise, but it was oh so satisfying.

 

He lay back down on the bed, stretching languidly. It was about time that the mortal got taken down a peg or two. He was far too full of himself as it was. Ballard would eventually come for him again. He had to if he wanted to complete his plan. He would also undoubtedly use the serum again. The general would be in for a surprise then. No one controlled Death. Not even Methos.

 

He smirked. Kronos would be so proud.

 

_..._

 

MacLeod had hired a rental car to drive to Eagle Lake, Maine. He could understand why an Immortal would want to live in Eagle Lake. It was a small town, population 815, surrounded by parks and reserves. But, what made it such a wonderful place to live also made it dangerous for an Immortal. Small towns were unlikely to ignore such things as localised electrical storms or the fact that someone did not seem to be aging. In a city, everyone’s business was their own and if someone did not appear to be aging then it was put down to either marvellous anti-aging products or plastic surgery.

 

He quickly checked into one of the local inns, leaving Amy to find a motel. The other Immortal’s Watcher was still in town so they were unable to meet up. They communicated, but they did try not to rub it in the Watcher’s faces. MacLeod dialled Amy’s number once he got to his room.

 

_“Yeah?”_

“Amy, it’s MacLeod. Anything new?”

 

_“Not really. David Cole’s body still hasn’t shown up. But if that was his Quickening at the base then that’s not surprising.”_

“They must have another Immortal if there was a Quickening.”

 

The thought that someone was using the military to Hunt other Immortals was unpalatable. For the fact that they were not following the rules of the Game but also because they endangered every Immortal. It was dangerous for the military to know about Immortals. MacLeod doubted that there would be any end to the advantages that the military would find to having Immortals; soldiers that did not die, people to test experimental drugs on without fear of side effects. MacLeod shuddered to think what would happen if the military was able to discover how the Quickening worked.

 

_“The Watchers can’t do anything. If it had been a Watcher that had told the military that would be different, but if it’s an Immortal then we can’t interfere.”_

“That non-interference policy seems to get in the way more often than not,” Duncan muttered. “I need to establish whether or not there is an Immortal there, then whether they are working with the military voluntarily or not.”

 

_“And Adam?”_

 

“Adam can look after himself. Hopefully, he isn’t in too much danger at the moment. I can’t just ignore this. As much as I wish it didn’t have to be this way, Adam will have to wait.”

 

_“I know he can look after himself, I just… worry about him. He’s friends with Joe, and he saved my life, I don’t want anything to happen to him.”_

 

“Adam always manages to land on his feet. Did the police find out anything about the Immortal that went missing?” Duncan asked, changing the topic. He was worried about Adam as well, and he hated to think that he was abandoning his friend, but the situation with Cole couldn’t be ignored.

 

_“Nothing new. They don’t even know who kidnapped him. We just know what his Watcher said about it being military. If they are Hunting Immortals watch your back. You are pretty well known.”_

 

“I will.” MacLeod looked up suddenly when he heard a noise. “I’ll call you back Amy,” he said quickly before shutting his phone off. He drew his sword even though he did not sense an Immortal. The weapon was a comfort in his hand.

 

He moved cautiously through the room he had been given, switching off all the lights, until he reached the door. He pressed an ear to it and his eyes narrowed as he definitely heard noises coming from the passage. He edged silently away from the door and pressed himself against the wall. Moments later, he heard scratching at door to his room as someone tried to pick the lock. MacLeod edged further into the shadows.

 

The door swung open slowly and a man crept silently into the room. He was followed by two others, one of them remaining by the door. One of the two who moved into the room went to the bed, which had rumpled blankets, while the other watched his back.

 

“He’s not here,” the intruder by the bed told the other two.

 

MacLeod knew that he had to get out which meant getting past the one at the door. It did not seem to be too difficult a task. He was taller and broader than the man guarding the door. With a swift movement, he leapt from the shadows and charged the man. The man stumbled back with the impact and they fell into the hallway.

 

“Get off of him,” one of the other men ordered. MacLeod jumped to his feet, ready to run. His eyes focused on the gun aimed at him. It was at times like this that he understood why Methos carried a gun of his own. It was a far more functional weapon than a sword in this day and age. Of course, he did not condone the killing of mortals, unless to protect other mortals, and even then he would rather choose incapacitation. Sometimes he really wished that he had taken to heart many of the things the oldest Immortal had said to him over the years.

 

He heard the soft discharge of a silenced gun. His body jerked with the impact and he stumbled back a step. He raised a hand to his chest, feeling the disbelief he experienced every time he was shot.

 

“Bring his sword just in case.” Was that fear MacLeod heard in his voice? He frowned but did not have time to contemplate that thought as the man shot him again.

 

...

 

The X-men were gathered in the Blackbird. They were all dressed in the black suits that were the norm when they were on missions. Ororo was already seated in the co-pilot’s seat. Kurt sat behind her and Logan sat behind the pilot’s seat. While they were training Rogue and Bobby to eventually become part of the team it had been agreed that this mission was simply too dangerous for them.

 

Scott sat down in the pilot’s seat. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly that his knuckles were white. The last time he had been in the stealth plane he had lost Jean, the love of his life. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He had a someone to retrieve and he could not afford to fall to pieces.

 

_Cyclops… Scott, it is possible for Wolverine or Storm to assume command on this mission,_ the professor’s voice said in his mind. Scott shook his head.

 

_I can do this_ , he told the man he looked up to as a father. _I have to_ , he added to himself.

 

_Godspeed_ , was the only reply before the presence left his mind. He felt some of his unease drain away. Xavier trusted that he could do this. His team trusted that he could.

 

Ororo gave Scott a sidelong glance but did not comment. She knew how hard it was for him. It was hard for them all. Usually she would have piloted the plane in Jean’s absence, but she was needed to summon a storm cloud to further hide their presence when they reached the base.

 

After a moment’s pause, Scott reached forward and began to work the controls. He was the leader of the team and it was his job to put aside his emotional baggage and lead the team properly. He could not let emotions cloud his decisions. He focussed his attention solely on flying the plane and the mission ahead, nothing else mattered at this point.

 

It was some time later when he noticed dark clouds curling around the plane and hiding it from view. He hazarded a brief glance at Ororo and noticed that her blue eyes had gone white with the power she channelled through her. He turned his attention once more to flying. Noting their co-ordinates he slowly began to ease the plane to land on an open patch of land near the base where their misplaced team member was being kept.

 

The plane landed with a jolt and the four mutants unbuckled their seatbelts. Three faces turned to look at him and Scott pulled himself up to his full height.

 

“We have someone in there. We have no idea what condition he’s in, but we’re going to bring him out in one piece,” he told them.

 

“Then we’re gonna level the place,” Logan growled. The corner of Scott’s mouth twitched as he fought a smirk.

 

“Then we’re going to level the place,” he agreed. He raised a hand to check that his visor was firmly in place. “Let’s do this.”

 

...

 

The four X-men stealthily approached the base. Their plan of action had long been decided upon. Cyclops and Wolverine would find their errant team member and bring him home. In the mean time, Nightcrawler and Storm would set the explosives that would level the place and destroy any evidence of what had been going on.

 

There were only two guards at the entrance. It seemed a bit suspicious, but Ballard would probably want to keep a low profile and not draw too much attention to his operation. As far as they knew, the base had only one entrance, though Ballard would undoubtedly have an exit for his own use.

 

Cyclops gave both Wolverine and Nightcrawler a nod, indicating that it was time to move. Wolverine slipped silently towards one of the soldiers before leaping at the man. With a quick slice of his claws the man was down. At the same time, Nightcrawler reluctantly picked up a large stick, before transporting himself behind the other soldier. The blow he dealt was just hard enough to knock the guard out.

 

By the time Cyclops and Storm reached them, Nightcrawler had already taken a key card from his victim and swiped it. Storm and Nightcrawler were the first to make their way into the base so that they could set the charges. Cyclops and Wolverine soon followed, intent on finding their team-mate.


	12. Chapter 12

Death paced his cell, his gait closer to a stalk than a frustrated march. His confinement was getting to him more than it had previously. He was Methos. He was _Death_. He would not be imprisoned. He would not be controlled.

 

The swish of the door alerted him to a new arrival. Recently, his guards had been too scared to even bring him his food so he knew that something must be happening. His expression changed briefly to one of immense satisfaction as he dipped into the power he had at his disposal. But that was quickly erased, when he turned toward Ballard, face now completely expressionless.

 

“Gathered your courage, I see,” he said silkily. Ballard raised the tranquilliser gun he was holding at the same time. They stood once more, staring at each other, neither acting.

 

“I have come to realise the futility of my previous plan of action,” Ballard began.

 

“Bravo.” Death smirked patronizingly. A soldier came to stand at Ballard’s side and the Horseman’s gaze darted quickly to the movement. Ballard took advantage of his slight distraction and before the oldest Immortal was even entirely aware of what was happening the effects of the serum began to slide around the edges of his consciousness, slowly taking hold. He lashed out, but was already losing focus.

 

“I’m going to enjoy watching you beg for your life,” he sneered, his voice cold and his eyes hard. He struggled to retain control over his body, but eventually he succumbed to the inevitable.

 

Ballard only allowed himself to relax his guard a little when the man stopped resisting entirely. He had come to realise just how impossible his first plan had been. He had also come to understand that the Immortal known as Death was hiding the true extent of his power. After he had seen that the other Immortals did not the control his Immortal did, he had realised that there was much more to him than he had first believed.

 

Ballard stared into the blank hazel eyes only realising now that all emotion was gone, just how expressive those apparently indifferent eyes actually were. He had always thought that they revealed very little about the man. How wrong he had been. He took a step forward, still cautious despite the fact that the Immortal was completely under his control. If nothing else this man had taught him just how dangerous he really was and how hazardous it was to underestimate him.

 

“I’ve got a new Immortal for you,” he explained. Not that it really mattered. Death would obey his commands anyway. “I know that you’re more powerful than you’ve told me. It really wasn’t very sporting of you to keep that from me, but it doesn’t matter now. When you take this one I want you to call the others here. Can you do that?”

 

“Anyone in the Game who senses my presence will come.”

 

Ballard grinned cheerfully.

 

“Excellent.”

 

Ballard beckoned to another soldier who loosely held the bastard sword. Once he had handed the sword to Ballard he quickly stepped back, as though the sword alone could attack him.

 

Ballard placed the sword in the Immortal’s hand and waited until his fingers curled around the hilt. He felt a thrill of exhilaration when he commanded Death to follow him and Death obeyed. He stopped outside the room he had used previously. After the first Quickening, precautions had been taken against the surge of an Immortal’s Quickening being released. He punched in the code and the door slid open. He took little notice of the disoriented Immortal that knelt, a little unsteadily, on the other side of the room.

 

“Enter the room,” Ballard told his pet Immortal who stepped forward without hesitation. Ballard grinned in anticipation, his fingers already flying over the keypad to reseal the door as he added, “Come and see.”

 

A loud, blaring alarm sounded, indicating intruders, and Death noted the annoyed expression on Ballard’s face before the door slid smoothly shut. With the closing of the door, the alarm became muted and he dismissed all thoughts of it entirely.

 

Death instinctively tightened his grip on his sword as he turned to look at the rather pathetic looking Immortal before him. His thoughts were murky, but he knew one thing. His sole purpose was to kill the Immortal. He raised an eyebrow in recognition as the man looked up at him. He twisted his sword expertly in a practice swing as he found his balance with the weapon.

 

“Methos,” MacLeod said in shock, finally focusing on the Immortal that had entered the room. The effects of reviving were quickly leaving him and he noticed that he had been stripped of his coat. “What’s going on?”

 

Methos gave no answer. Instead, he raised his sword and MacLeod quickly rolled out of the way, struggling against the ropes binding his hands. He had no wish to fight his friend, but he would do what he had to until he could figure out what was going on.

 

He rolled again, freeing his hands, when Methos swung at him. He was confident in his abilities to hold the other Immortal off until he worked something out. After all, in all of their sparring matches Methos had never beaten him. It did not take long for MacLeod to realise just how much Methos had been holding back, especially when Methos scored a deep wound across MacLeod’s chest. MacLeod decided that it was time to take the offensive. He lunged at Methos, grabbing him around the waist and knocking him off his feet.

 

“Is this a Dark Quickening?” MacLeod asked trying to gauge the other Immortal’s thoughts from his expression, but finding nothing. MacLeod decided that he definitely preferred the arrogant and amused smirks, however annoying, to these empty stares.

 

Death cocked his head to the side, expression blank. Then the Horseman twisted out of MacLeod’s grasp and rose to his feet again.

 

“Methos,” MacLeod tried again. The oldest Immortal simply quirked the corner of his mouth in a mild smirk. He was enjoying this.

 

MacLeod took a few steps back. This silent Methos was making him feel distinctly on edge. Methos was never silent. MacLeod found himself wishing for the ridiculous stories that Methos spun with such ease. The two Immortals stood opposite each other, panting for breath.

 

“Methos, this isn’t like you. You aren’t interested in the Game,” MacLeod said, trying one last time to get through to the other Immortal. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Methos had never been eager to fight before. He had always done his best to avoid fights. Yet here he was, challenging Immortals and working with the military no less. Something was definitely not right, but MacLeod had no clue as to how to fix it.

 

Death shrugged negligently. It wasn’t about the Game or the Prize. His purpose was to kill the Immortals and to him it felt as though his entire life hinged on accomplishing that goal. He was sure there was something he was supposed to remember about Ballard, but it didn’t seem all that important at the moment. He had to deal with MacLeod.

 

MacLeod gathered himself once more and lunged forcefully. Methos managed to block the first strike of his fist, but not the second. MacLeod took the opportunity and try to wrestle the sword out of Methos’ hands. He managed to score a slice to Methos’ shoulder and MacLeod gritted his teeth, expecting to feel the sword grind against the bone of the other Immortal’s shoulder; instead it struck jarringly, sending his old friend stumbling for several paces. MacLeod was horrified to see, amid the blood flowing from the wound, the grey sheen of metal instead of white bone. He stared incredulously, unable to believe just what his eyes were showing him.

 

What had Methos allowed them to do to him? MacLeod wondered. Had he been willing at all? He certainly seemed complicit enough at the moment. But there was definitely something wrong with him. MacLeod knew that much.

 

Death was unable to hide the grimace of pain that crossed his features. He determined that he had played with the Immortal long enough. It was time to end it. He dipped further into his well of power than he had in a long time and drew it out. Various cuts and abrasions that MacLeod had scored healed almost instantly, the wound on his arm following only a little more slowly.

 

With all his Quickening released the oldest Immortal knew that he would be a beacon for most of the Immortals in the States. Powerful Immortals were always drawn to each other. He felt a faint surge of panic, but couldn’t understand why. This, too, was his purpose and accomplishing it was a good thing. With a slight shake of his head, he dispelled the feeling and looked once more to his victim.

 

MacLeod sank to his knees, pressing one hand to his head, as he tried to suppress the feeling of nausea that had come upon him. He had never been confronted with a Quickening so strong. He squinted at Methos, who locked gazes with him. He looked terrible and otherworldly and MacLeod wondered how he had missed the power that Methos held all these years. It had been so easy to see him as Adam Pierson, even after the Horsemen ordeal, but he would never mistake this being for a benign grad student.

 

With several steps forward Death placed his blade at MacLeod’s neck. For the first time he smirked, and the condescending nature of his smirk annoyed MacLeod, even as the Highlander wondered how he was going to get out of this situation.

 

He stared into the blank hazel eyes of his friend and soon-to-be murderer before a movement caused him to flick his eyes to the door. Two men stood there; MacLeod absently noted, with the clarity that comes from knowing the end is coming, that one of the men had claws. The two men stood frozen in shock, if only for a moment before they burst into action. MacLeod’s eyes shifted back to Methos’ as the Immortal raised his sword to strike the final blow.

 

Death noticed the movement out of the corner of his eyes, but did not sense the buzz of a Quickening that marked an Immortal’s presence and so dismissed them as insignificant. They were too far away to stop him in time anyway.

 

“There can be only me.”

 

...

 

Ballard waited until the door slid shut before he turned one of his men.

 

“You! Take some men and find out what precisely is going on,” he ordered above the blaring of the alarms. “I want a report on the situation in five minutes.” The man nodded and spun quickly on his heel, several other men following him down the passage.

 

Ballard turned and the remainder of his men followed him into the observation room. His men were capable of dealing with the problem. He’d picked them for that very reason. At the momen,t he had more important things to take care of.

 

Ballard sat in front of the monitors and watched the fight play out on the screen. He knew that he would lose reception once the Quickening hit, but once that happened it was all over anyway.

 

It was obvious to Ballard that the two Immortals knew each other, but that just made it even more delightful. Death killed at his command. He frowned in annoyance when Death was wounded. He had made the man all but invincible, had done everything he possibly could to give him an advantage and still he faltered. He was about to order his men into the room to interfere if necessary when the screen flickered before going static.

 

“Fix that,” Ballard snarled at one of his men. The picture returned long enough for Ballard to see two of those infernal mutants running into the room. “Get them! Get them now. They’re going to ruin everything.”

 

He quickly left the room, belatedly realising that he hadn’t received any report.

...

 

Wolverine raced into the room intent on reaching Adam before he could do something he would regret. Unfortunately, he knew already that despite his reflexes he wouldn’t make it in time.

 

Cyclops stopped in the doorway and adjusted his visor to a reasonably safe level for most people. He didn’t have time to get an exact setting when he blasted Adam across the room. He then took stock of the stranger Adam had been threatening. The man seemed to blink away the effects of the optic blast before climbing unsteadily to his feet.

 

Death snarled as he slammed against the wall. His sword fell from numb fingers as he collapsed to the ground. What wounds he had received healed almost instantly and he picked up his sword. Raising his head he stared menacingly at the two mutants.

 

“How nice of you to join the party,” he commented idly, as he looked them over critically. “Though your rescue attempt was a bit ill-conceived.”

 

Ballard appeared in the doorway and it was as if everyone froze, intent on seeing how this new development would play out. Ballard stared Death in the eye.

 

“Kill them,” he ordered.

 

“With pleasure.” Death shifted his grip on his sword to hold it with both hands.

 

Ballard disappeared down the corridor, leaving his men to assist with the situation. If there were two mutant intruders then there would likely be more and he could not afford to have his base compromised. He had worked far too hard for everything to fall apart now. Ballard forced himself to remain calm. Stryker’s research had been right so far, it wouldn’t do for Ballard to lose faith now.

 

Cyclops came to stand at the stranger’s side as they faced the soldiers. The swords were a surprise, but now was not the time to ask questions. Cyclops could see that their teammate was once more under the influence of the serum, which meant that they had to keep him occupied until it wore off. Unfortunately, they also had the guards to deal with and fighting a battle on two fronts rarely lead to a favourable outcome.

“Wolverine,” Cyclops called over his shoulder, without moving his gaze from the soldiers. He received no reply, but the grunt he heard as the two men clashed was answer enough. After that, he had just enough time to adjust his visor before the soldiers opened fire. Beside him, the stranger moved to neutralise the soldiers as well.

 

Clearly, the mutant didn’t need too much encouragement to fight as he lunged for Death. The Immortal dodged out of the way, relying on his agility, rather than a direct attack. He brought his elbow down on Wolverine’s spine. Death quickly pushed his frustration away when Wolverine hardly skipped a step as he turned back to grapple with the Immortal.

 

Death snarled as he lost his grip on his sword in the tussle, but didn’t have time to concern himself with that fact. The mutant, who knew of his healing, wasn’t holding anything back and while Death had more experience, Wolverine was decidedly the stronger of the two. They paused briefly to regain their bearings before circling each other once more.

 

Wolverine watched for the slightest movement of muscle that would indicate the other man’s next move. Abruptly Adam paused, shaking his head as if to clear it and blinked several times.

 

”Logan?” he asked shakily.

 

Wolverine watched him warily, still circling.

 

“Logan, I don’t…” he trailed off, swaying dangerously as he stumbled a step. Wolverine moved quickly to his side.

 

Death struck out with a fist to the gut, following up with a punch to the jaw. Wolverine staggered back several steps. The Immortal shook his hand out, surprised at just how hard the mutant’s skeleton was. Without a doubt more durable than his. Pushing that thought aside, Death stalked forward.

 

Cyclops kept half his attention focussed on the man beside him as he ducked out of the way of the bullets. Two short blasts and the two soldiers closest to the door were neutralised. Two others, having learnt from their colleagues’ misfortune, ran at him in an attempt to both take him down and to limit the usefulness of his blasts.

 

He winced as one of the soldiers caught him with a right hook. He responded with one of his own, but the soldier moved out of the way before he could connect. The second one kicked him in the back of the knee and he fell hard to the ground.

 

MacLeod rolled forwards to avoid the bullets. They wouldn’t have killed him, at least not permanently, but they certainly would have slowed him down. Two blasts of red light shot over his head and the rain of bullets decreased significantly. MacLeod decided to worry about it later. Considering that he’d been kidnapped by army personnel so that his best friend could kill him, mutants who could shoot lasers out of their eyes were the least of his problems. Especially when it seemed like they were on his side. Instead he jumped to his feet and engaged the soldier nearest to him.

 

He kicked the soldier in the stomach before spinning to block the punch of the next one. A fist slamming into the first soldier’s jaw sent him to the ground and MacLeod then laid the second one out with a flurry of hits, finished off with a kick that swept the soldier off his feet. Seeing no more opponents of his own he hurried to the mutant’s aid.

 

Cyclops raised a hand to his visor and he blasted the first soldier several feet back where he collided with the wall. He then turned to deal with the second soldier, but found him already on the ground, unconscious, and the stranger standing above him. Cyclops accepted the man’s hand and was helped to his feet.

 

MacLeod turned back to the fight between Methos and the other mutant and hesitated, unsure of what he should do.

 

“Don’t interfere,” the mutant told him.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“Adam’s under the influence of a mind-controlling serum. Wolverine will take care of it.”

 

MacLeod almost sagged in relief. He had not wanted to think he’d been mistaken about Methos all these years. He then stared intently at the mutant.

 

“What do you mean ‘take care of it’?” MacLeod asked as he started forward. The brown haired man grabbed his arm to stop him.

 

“The serum will wear off, but until it does we have to keep him from harming anyone and Wolverine can handle himself.” The last was said grudgingly.

 

Wolverine quickly regained his bearings and leapt forward with a strong right hook that snapped Adam’s head back. He almost felt guilty because he knew that even with Adam’s healing that had to hurt, but he could tell that more than just the man’s mind had been messed with. Adam was more resilient than he should be, even with his healing ability. He aimed another series of punches, with his full strength behind them, at Adam’s ribs and stomach. While he was still recovering, Wolverine grabbed a fistful of material and pinned him to the wall. He then held his claws to the man’s neck. The predator in Wolverine delighted in the faintest flicker of fear he saw in the other man’s eyes. He applied fractionally more pressure and three separate trickles of blood ran down Adam’s neck.

 

“I press a little harder, and I’m betting not even you could survive,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Your skeleton – “

 

“Oh, I’ve been taking my calcium supplements like a good boy,” Death replied with a smirk. “I can take more than you think.”

 

“I liked you better as Stryker’s lackey.”

 

“I’m no one’s lackey,” Death said coldly.

 

“Coulda fooled me,” Wolverine drawled.

 

Wolverine watched Adam lean his head back against the wall. His hand fell away from Wolverine’s arm and he took several deep breaths.

 

The oldest Immortal raised his head, glowering darkly, as his mind once more became his own. Ballard would regret his attempts at controlling Death. His eyes bored into Wolverine’s. No one would stand in his way.

 

“Release me,” he commanded. Wolverine gave him an amused look.

 

“And why would I do that?”

 

“I have more important things to take care of.”

 

“Wolverine,” Cyclops said. “Let him go.”

 

The feral mutant observed Death warily for a long moment, weighing him up, before he finally stepped back, releasing him.

 

“MacLeod?” the oldest Immortal asked brusquely.

 

MacLeod stepped forward then hesitated.

 

“Adam, what’s going on?”

 

“Get your Watcher and get out of here.”

 

“Adam –”

 

“MacLeod, there will be more of _us_ coming. Leave. Now.” MacLeod clearly heard the presumed authority and resulting impatience in Methos’ tone and knew that while he wasn’t under the control of the serum, and he really needed an explanation for that, this still wasn’t the Methos he knew. This stranger now commanded the mutant that had helped MacLeod fight the guards. “Scott, take him to the surface and get him out of here.”

 

“Where are you going?” the mutant addressed as ‘Scott’ asked.

 

“I’m going to follow through on a promise,” Methos replied with a cold smile. He retrieved his sword and left the room at a jog.

 

“I’ll go with him,” Wolverine volunteered even as he made his way to the door. If anyone could relate to Adam’s state of mind at the moment it was him and he knew that Adam wouldn’t care if the base fell down around him as long as he got his revenge.

 

“Hurry, we won’t have much time. I’ll take this guy to the surface.” The two men nodded to each other and Wolverine disappeared out the door. Cyclops led the man called MacLeod out of the room and began to make his own way to the surface.

 

...

 

Storm placed the last of the explosive devices and set the timer for 30 minutes. It would give them enough time to get out of the base and a little extra in case they ran into any problems. She glanced at Nightcrawler who was keeping watch for any more soldiers. They’d already had to deal with quite a few as they made their way deeper into the base. Nightcrawler nodded in return and they hurried down the passage that led to the stairs. Storm tapped the communication device in her ear.

 

“Thirty minutes.”

 

“Affirmative,” Cyclops answered.


	13. Chapter 13

Methos ran down the hallway, sword gripped tightly in his hand. Wolverine followed closely on his heels. Methos was glad that it was the feral mutant who had come after him rather than either of the Boyscouts. There were things that needed to be done that Scott and MacLeod would balk at, but that Logan would know were necessary. Methos had never before appreciated just how much Wolverine reminded him of Kronos. Both were forces of nature and they simply ploughed through anyone who opposed them. Methos stopped when he came to a familiar corridor. He looked ahead, down the hallway to where Ballard’s office was before he stepped up to the keypad. Ballard would have to wait a few minutes.

 

“Don’t have much time,” Wolverine told him.

 

“Have to tie up loose ends,” he replied as he punched in the code he remembered. The light on the keypad flashed red and the door remained shut. Methos gave a frustrated growl. Ballard had obviously changed the code.

 

“Move over,” Wolverine said gruffly. Methos glared at him, but did so. Wolverine punched the keypad, his blades destroying the circuitry. The keypad sparked and the door slid open.

 

“Lighter,” he demanded and Wolverine handed it over without complaint. Acting quickly, Methos began to set Ballard’s research on fire. Whatever survived of the base, he had to make sure that no one else would find it.

 

Methos turned and walked determinedly out of the room.

 

“Now we finish it,” he said.

 

...

 

Cyclops and MacLeod jogged through the passages, on the lookout for any more soldiers, as they made their way to the exit. Many had already been taken care of, either when they made their way into the base, or by Storm and Nightcrawler as they made their way through the base. The rest had probably fled. Cyclops looked speculatively at MacLeod. There was a lot about the situation that simply didn’t make sense to him.

 

“What was going on with you and Adam? What did he mean by more of you would be coming?” he asked finally. The other man seemed to hesitate before he answered.

 

“Did Me… did Adam tell you what he is?” MacLeod had to know because Methos must have been playing an angle of some sort. Methos was always playing an angle.

 

“Just that he’s part of a group that calls itself Immortals.”

 

“How much did he tell you about us?” he asked, hoping that Methos had been his usual discreet self. He wasn’t too sure that he wanted mutants to be aware of the existence of Immortals. Whatever Methos thought, MacLeod wasn’t that foolish. The war between mutants and humans already had enough sides and problems without adding Immortals into the mix. Whatever exactly had happened at the base was a clear example of that.

 

“He said that you heal and because of that your lifespan was lengthened.”

 

“That much is true, but we can also absorb power from each other,” MacLeod admitted, because he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave without at least some explanation. “Some of the more… ruthless of us will be coming here to do just that.”

 

“And the swords?” Cyclops asked, because that was what really intrigued him about the whole setup.

 

“How we absorb power.”

 

“And that’s why Ballard wanted Adam? So that he could use this power?”

 

“I would assume so.”

 

They were at the exit now and MacLeod spotted two other mutants that he hadn’t seen yet. He assumed that these were the ones who set the explosives. The mutant that Methos had called ‘Scott’ immediately went over to the other two. MacLeod hesitated because he knew that he had to get to Amy before the influx of Immortals started, and it would be soon, but he also didn’t want to leave until he knew that Methos had made it out alright.

 

...

 

Methos and Wolverine continued down the passage, hurrying because they only had fifteen minutes left before the charges went off. Methos shifted his grip on his sword slightly before barging into Ballard’s office.

 

Ballard looked up from his desk where he had been gathering folders. The soldiers who had accompanied him moved to stand in front of him, forming a barrier between Ballard and the two men. Methos ignored them completely and kept his eyes on Ballard.

 

“Kill him,” Ballard demanded.

 

“Not the target I had in mind,” Methos commented idly.

 

Ballard looked briefly surprised before he realised that the serum had worn off.

 

“Shoot them,” he ordered the soldiers.

 

The soldiers immediately began to fire their weapons, but Methos and Wolverine were already in motion. Methos was upon the first soldier, smoothly gutting him before he went immediately for Ballard. He left Wolverine to deal with the other three.

 

“This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go,” Ballard said. “You’re supposed to be the end of them.”

 

“That’s the problem with plans,” Methos said as continued forward, watching Ballard warily, because the man always seemed to have something up his sleeve. “You should always have a back-up.”

 

Ballard drew a gun when Methos got too close and took several steps backwards, keeping the Immortal at a distance. Methos hesitated, because while it didn’t look like a tranquiliser gun, he knew that Ballard wouldn’t use a normal gun after he made his so called improvements.

 

“I’m practically invincible now, and I have you to thank for that,” Methos said casually, keeping his distance, waiting for a chance to strike. “Let me show you just how appreciative I am,” he added with a cruel smile.

 

“We had an agreement,” Ballard objected.

 

“The one where you tortured me and then took away my free will?”

 

Ballard began to look uneasy. He glanced quickly at his soldiers, to see when they would be finished with the mutant and deal with the immortal. Once they returned the immortal to his cell then everything would be alright. He’d been rationing the serum since there was only a finite supply left, but there were other, messier, ways to control him.

 

Methos smiled menacingly as he slowly stepped forward. He would never admit to it, but he had been afraid of this mortal who could strip him of his own mind, but he saw now that Ballard was a desperate man clinging to an already failed plan.

 

“Then you’re no longer of any use,” Ballard said as he steadied his aim, his finger on the trigger.

 

“Wouldn’t recommend it, bub,” Wolverine said, from where he stood behind Ballard. Some of the soldiers had put up more of a fight than others, but he had dealt with them quickly. He hung back for now knowing that this was something Adam had to do.

 

Ballard twisted to the side, shooting quickly at Wolverine before turning back to Methos. Methos didn’t even blink at Wolverine’s pained grunt. As long as the mutant was making noise he was alive, anything else his healing factor would take care of.

 

“Ain’t normal bullets,” Wolverine warned he applied pressure to the wound, even as his healing kicked in. The bullet had gone through, but it had nicked the bone. It wasn’t often that something could impact his Adamantium skeleton, certainly not something like a bullet. Ballard looked almost smug.

 

“I did some experimenting of my own. They’re made of Adamantium,” he said. “A way to control you, or kill you, if things didn’t work out.”

 

“I thought it was all planned,” Methos replied scathingly, even as he shifted to a back-handed grip.

 

“Never hurts to plan for any eventuality.”

 

“For once I agree,” Methos said, as he spun, ignoring the burning sensation left by a bullet tearing through the base of his neck, where it met his shoulder. He thrust the sword into Ballard’s chest and twisted viciously before turning to watch as the man gasped desperately. Methos smirked as he watched Ballard’s dawning realisation that all his planning had come to nothing.

 

“I really did wish that I would get to savour this moment,” Methos murmured as he clamped a hand to his neck, “but knowing that you and everything you’ve worked for will be destroyed will have to be enough.”

 

Raising his sword one-handed Methos put all his weight into the downward swing. He was already moving towards the computer when Ballard slumped to the ground, decapitated. He typed quickly, trying to ignore the decreasing, though much too slowly for his liking, flow of blood from the wound. Neck wounds always took the longest, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it left a scar.

 

Methos quickly and efficiently set it up so that Ballard’s computer, and the entire network it was connected to, would crash. He also grabbed MacLeod’s sword, sitting in pride of place on Ballard’s desk. He was waiting for the progress bar to reach 100 percent when Wolverine grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

 

“We have to leave now,” Wolverine told him forcefully. Methos didn’t turn his gaze from the computer.

 

“30 seconds more,” he said, because he couldn’t risk anything about what happened getting out.

 

“This place is going to blow sky high –“ Wolverine began. He made an annoyed sound before heaving Methos bodily and throwing him out of the window, only to follow him seconds later.

 

Methos landed awkwardly and rolled, to reduce the impact. Then he was up and Wolverine grabbed his arm and they ran from the base as quickly as they could. Moments later, both were thrown off their feet by the force of the explosion. Flames and debris battered at them as they covered their heads.

 

Finally, it stopped and Wolverine pulled himself to his feet. He offered Methos a hand up but Methos simply glared at him disdainfully.

 

“We should catch up with the others,” Wolverine said.

 

Methos stared at him impassively for a long moment before shaking his head decisively.

 

“No,” he replied. “I have some things I need to do first.”

 

Wolverine returned his stare with a lengthy evaluating look. Eventually, he shrugged.

 

“Alright then, Sparky, let’s do it.”

 

“That’s it?” Methos asked, a little surprised, because he knew that Logan understood all the implications of what he was saying.

 

“If you wanted moral recriminations you picked the wrong X-man,” was Wolverine’s unconcerned reply. He then tapped his communication device. “Hey Cyke, you there?”

 

“Wolverine,” Cyclops said, voice clearly coloured with relief. “I take it you and Adam made it out alright.”

 

“We’re just peachy,” Wolverine replied, “but we’re taking a bit of a detour.”

 

“How long will you be?”

 

“Don’t wait up,” was all Wolverine said before he turned off the device and removed it. He turned back to Methos. “Think any of their vehicles survived the explosion?”


	14. Chapter 14

MacLeod knocked insistently on Amy’s door. The door opened suddenly and Amy stood there ashen faced. Finally she heaved a sigh of relief.

 

“MacLeod,” she said. “You disappeared and I wasn’t sure what had happened. Thank God you’re alright.”

 

“We need to get out of here, now,” he told her. He had been reluctant to leave Methos at the base, but Methos had taken off. The mutants had recommended that he go with them, but he’d been reluctant to expose Immortals, especially when they were strangers. The only point of reference he had for them was that an obviously unhinged Methos trusted them, and MacLeod knew the sort of people Methos had trusted in the past. He’d also needed to get Amy before the influx of Immortals into Eagle Lake.

 

As soon as they were somewhere far from Eagle Lake they could search the Watchers’ Database for any indication of where Methos was, though he doubted they’d find anything. When Methos went to ground there usually wasn’t much of a trail.

 

Amy briefly evaluated his condition before she nodded quickly. She grabbed her still mostly packed bag and shoved her other possessions into it. MacLeod took it from her, as he was able to carry the heavy bag with greater ease.

 

In minutes, they were downstairs and getting into the car. MacLeod looked up when he sensed an Immortal. A severe looking man with a cruel smile stood watching him from the street corner. Going against his instincts MacLeod slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car.

 

...

 

Scott knocked lightly on the door and waited for Xavier to call for him to enter. The school had been remarkably quiet after the chaos that had characterised the weeks, even months, before. Both the staff and children had been disappointed when Logan and Adam had not returned. The team had done their best to reassure everyone that both men were alive and well, but he didn’t think anyone would really believe them until they saw the men for themselves.

 

Scott shut the door behind him and sat in one of the seats before Xavier’s desk. Xavier looked at him expectantly and Scott was sure that he was aware of the news already. He had undoubtedly picked it up from Scott’s mind already.

 

“Logan contacted me,” Scott said. “He’s keeping an eye on Adam.” From the tension in Logan’s voice Scott knew there was more, but Logan wasn’t talking and Scott wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

 

“At the moment Adam needs someone who can understand what he’s gone through. Logan is best suited to that task,” Xavier told him reassuringly, but he couldn’t quite hide that he was still troubled.

 

“Of course,” Scott agreed, because Logan still had things tying him to the school, even if Adam didn’t. One way or another at least one of them would be back. He stood and made his way from the room.

 

Xavier picked up his newspaper once more and continued to frown at it. The headline read “Cult massacre at Eagle Lake, Maine.” Below that, in smaller letters, was “67 decapitated.”

 

...

 

Methos picked up the receiver of a rather grungy payphone and dialled a number he remembered by heart. It rang several times before switching to the answering machine and Methos suppressed a sigh of relief. He didn’t think he could handle facing either Joe or MacLeod just yet. He was, for the most part, feeling like himself again, but that didn’t mean that he’d found emotionally stability, nor did it mean he was over what had happened.

“Joe,” he said after waiting for the beep. “I won’t be in touch in for a while. I’m not sure how long. I just… have some things I need to work out.”

 

He was about to put the phone down when he heard the receiver picked up on the other end.

 

“ _Methos_ ,” Joe said a little breathlessly. Methos could only guess that he had hurried to catch the call. “ _Where are you_?”

 

“Around,” Methos replied drolly. “Just thought you’d like to know I wasn’t planning on taking over the known world.”

 

“ _Of course_ ,” Joe said, like he hadn’t even occurred to him, but Methos was sure MacLeod would have told him what had happened. Methos winced a little at that because even if he was still considered part of MacLeod’s clan, MacLeod was never going to trust him fully again.

 

“ _What was really going on at the base_?”

 

Methos grimaced because the line was far from secure but as long as they didn’t mention any specifics, he figured they’d alright. Even if someone did trace the call, he’d be gone in a few minutes anyway.

 

“He thought he could interfere, but we both know that such attempts always fail.”

 

“ _I know that_ ,” and this time Joe was exasperated. “ _I meant why you_?”

 

“Guess I was just convenient.”

 

“ _Why were you pretending to be a mutant anyway_?” Joe asked because he knew Methos liked to keep in the background and, at the moment, mutants were anything but in the background.

 

“It’s all about survival.”

 

“ _What did they do to you_?” Joe asked softly, picking up on things in Methos’ tone that he’d rather not reveal.

 

“A little of this, a little of that,” he answered noncommittally. “Get me drunk enough one day and I might just tell you the story.” It wasn’t an answer, or even the promise of an answer, but it would get Joe to give him some space for a while. Besides, there were more pressing concerns to take care of.

 

“ _I’ll hold you to that_.”

 

“See you around, Joe. Tell MacLeod his sword is in the post,” Methos said and he hung up.

 

Sometimes, he wished it was different, but even if Joe could find it in himself to understand what Methos was going to do, he doubted MacLeod would. Despite what the Highlander thought, he’d barely scratched the surface of the darker side of human nature.

 

“Hey Sparky,” Logan called from where he was leaning casually against a pole several feet away. “I got a lead on one of the companies that funded the project.”

 

Methos reached down to pick up his backpack, heavy with recently bought or stolen C4, ammunition and other necessary items. A smirk curved his mouth and Logan grinned around his dangling cigar in response.

 

“Do tell.”

 


End file.
